Philtatos
by VioletSm0ak
Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire-for Tim. Soon they both discover there's more than godlike power at work, but a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.
1. I

**Disclaimer: **This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**Canon-Compliance: **Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don't completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn't met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs!

**Beta Reader:** None at the moment, but if anyone's interested, message me through Tumblr.

**JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter:** #art #gods in disguise #wings

* * *

"Of all the warehouses in all the towns in all the world, you grappled onto mine."

Tim suppresses a groan at the faux amusement even a voice modulator can't disguise and prepares for the likelihood that his careful planning is about to go to shit. It's as irritating as the customary flutter in his stomach.

He shifts out of his crouch at the edge of the warehouse skylight and inclines his head to the right, taking in the familiar leather-clad figure and expressionless red helmet. He's not sure how he didn't sense the larger man approach or at least hear the tread of his boots.

_Jason knows how to be quiet when he needs to be. _

Quirks of being a Robin; the habit of creeping around like a living shadow doesn't disappear, even years after the fact.

"This isn't your warehouse," Tim replies at last, careful to keep his tone neutral and not betraying his irritation. While he doubts his predecessor would try to take him out from behind (he's 89% sure, at least), Red Hood has tried to kill him several times and in several ways in the past.

Jason acts as if he didn't hear him.

"Might be time to go back to school, Timbers, if you can't even recognize a _Casablanca_ reference. I thought you're supposed to be the cultured one."

"Except for _Star Wars, _I prefer my movies to be from the post-John Hughes era."

"Heathen."

It's hard to tell if Jason is shuddering in disgust, or in response to the biting November chill; either is possible. Leather isn't known for its insulating properties.

On nights like this, Tim can't help being way more in awe of former Robins. When he wore the colors, he had thermal warmers built into his suit—Dick and Jason used to do this job in _short-pants_.

"Anyway, I'd never buy land here," Jason continues, a deceptive nonchalance in his tone putting Tim on edge. "It's right in a flood zone. I dunno about you, but I had enough floods to last a lifetime."

"Hood, _what_ are you doing here?"

"Should ask you that. I thought you were in California or something. Team-building exercises with the other kiddy heroes or whatever it is you do."

Tim ignores the way his heart jumps at the notion that Jason gave any attention to his whereabouts. "Business trip. What's your excuse?"

"Missed the smell of smog and sewer. Needed to get my fix."

_Right, because I really expected him to tell me the actual truth._

"Uh-huh."

The two former Robins size each other up for several seconds, and not for the first time, Tim curses the helmet hiding Jason's face. He hates not being able to read people, but in his experience, not being able to read Jason has the potential to turn deadly.

"Are we done?" Tim prompts.

"Yeah, we're good. Now make like a Bat and step off." Jason's reached into his side holsters—and yes, there are the modified M1911 pistols he favors. Tim's awareness of his position between Jason and the skylight grows. "I've got a creep that needs to fear of Hood put in him."

There is an implicit order to back off, but Tim squares his shoulders.

_As if _that_'s ever worked on _any_ of us._

He has no intention of relinquishing his case, and not just because he dislikes Jason's style of justice. Tim gets sidelined enough by both Batmans and Robin whenever he's in Gotham, he won't knuckle under because Red Hood also demands it. Tim might be a bit in love with the guy, but he knows how to compartmentalize.

His feelings are inconvenient, but he's resigned himself to them. He can pinpoint the exact moment it started to happen.

(His childhood fascination with Robin doesn't count, even if it was watching Jason bulldoze his path through petty criminals that made him breathless and giddy in a way watching Dick never had.)

Tim blames the waffles.

No, that's not right; he blames himself for asking Jason to _stay_ for the waffles.

And the talking.

Which led to the joking.

Which led to that one moment where Jason, with syrup all down his chin, laughed at one of Tim's throway remarks. _Laughed_, not sneered or scoffed, but genuinely _laughed_. It was unguarded and untouched by bitterness, warm and rich and his smile was that cocky twist Tim could remember from so many years ago. Something in Tim's chest pulled tight, his mouth going dry, and he felt lightheaded.

He should have known at that exact moment, because that's what happened with Steph, when he looked at her one day and realized, he _liked_ her.

Except with Jason, Tim thought he was just recovering from his surprise that his predecessor agreed to stick around for a while. And that they were getting along and that Jason was _laughing_.

After that, it was a slow roll toward the inevitable that he unknowingly (totally knowingly) ignored. He's always excelled at shielding himself from his own feelings—had to be. But every time they met each other on random patrols that crossed over, or amid the monthly major crisis involving the whole Family or when Tim ran into him at the manor visiting Alfred, that buoyant emotion returned, stronger each time.

Sometimes he lets himself imagine that Jason gravitates to him more than anyone else. It fills him with the same dizzy warmth as whenever Jason gives him a look—one of those conspiratorial ones like he and Tim are sharing a joke, except half the time Tim doesn't know what the joke is and the other half he's sure it's him, because what moron falls for the guy that's tried and almost succeeded in killing him more times than he likes to admit?

He keeps quiet about his feelings, though. It's not as if it's something that will ever pan out. It's simiar to having a crush on a celebrity; fun, if a little sad, to dream about, but never serious. In private, he figures he has a better chance of a healthy relationship with _Lynx_ than with Jason.

He's accepted that and intends to go on with his life.

"I lose you somewhere there?"

Jason's voice startles Tim out of his head—he realizes he's been silent for about thirty seconds—and he gives himself a mental shake. "Just trying to figure out your angle. This isn't really your…thing."

"Shows what you know."

Arguments with Jason are an exercise in futility and Tim refuses to justify his continued involvement in his own investigation—call if professional pride. Instead, he restructures his plan for apprehending his target, accounting for the new and often volatile presence of the Red Hood. He wasn't looking for a team-up, but he's pretty sure that's what's about to happen.

Tim sighs inwardly.

Just because he's used to his plans imploding because of Jason, doesn't mean he has to like it. As to why Jason's here, it only takes a mental review of the case to figure it out.

"Bunny Vreeland?" he guesses.

"Got it in one."

Tim nods, because given the specifics of this case, that _would_ be the angle Jason focussed on.

A spate of burglaries have occurred across the city, resulting in Gotham's elite families and institutions losing valuable pieces of art. Normally Tim would leave a case like this to the GCPD—it should be pretty open-shut, since every theft that's occurred has been witnessed by the victim.

Except, none of the witnesses seem to be able to recall anything that happened. And somehow, the extant security footage has offered no answers either. As for museums and galleries, those meant to be on guard with security were discovered…doing _other_ things. A lot of them were found in some rather compromising positions, both alone and when working with a partner.

(Tim suppresses a shudder. He could have gone his entire life without seeing the footage a sweat-stained, middle-aged rent-a-cop taking care of himself the Natural History Museum's security office.)

None of the victims remember how they ended up that way.

That sort of thing, he'd normally suspect it involved Poison Ivy, but she always leaves spores or trails of toxin behind. Every crime scene so far has been clean of any trace evidence.

Whoever is cutting a swath through Gotham's art collectors has a specific taste—paintings, sculptures and wood cuttings with decidedly risqué themes. Given the behavior of the witnesses and security personnel, it's entirely conceivable that there's a metahuman with some kind of… pheromone projection ability running around Gotham. That alone wouldn't draw Jason's attention. Except, the latest person to fall prey to the thief was a teenaged girl. And while the age of consent in New Jersey is sixteen, the consenter in question needs to remember giving it to be valid.

Hence Red Hood's involvement.

"That happened _yesterday_," Tim points out. He's not sure what is more annoying to him: the fact he's been on this case for a week and Jason thinks he can show up and take it from him, or that Jason's been looking into it for less than twenty-four hours and has already tracked down the suspect. "How did you figure out you should come here?"

Okay, so it's probably the latter.

"It's art, right? Whoever's doing this need somewhere to store the pieces, even if it's only waiting to sell them off. And it'd have to be somewhere easy to get in and out of without drawing attention. I kept an ear out for any property changing hands around here that was inside the theft radius."

"I checked recent property purchases, though. There haven't been any for the past two months."

"Well, there wouldn't be any records of it if it was a handshake deal—which this was," Jason replies. "It might not be on the record, but this place is now under the ownership of a Steven Howard." He tilts his head to one side, and Tim suspects he's being smirked at. "Why, what overly complicated scheme did you come up with to find this guy?"

There's that teasing again, although the amusement is more genuine this time. Tim hopes the cowl covers enough of his face to hide the flush in his cheeks.

"I used tonight's WE charity auction to showcase several pieces remaining from my parents' collection, specifically those that fit the tastes of our thief," he explains. "It was a last-minute decision, but I know a certain reporter that's more than happy to plaster my name across newspapers and social media everywhere."

"I don't doubt that."

"I was hoping to catch the guy in the act, but I got intercepted by a bunch of Lockheed Martin reps and couldn't get away."

"Probably for the best, or he'd have put the whammy on you, too."

"Maybe." He doesn't say he would rather it had been him than the event organizer; the poor woman had been frazzled enough before succumbing to the wiles of the mystery thief. "I had a contingency if it happened." Specifically, a taser in the sleeve of his suit. "Luckily, I left microtracers on the stolen pieces and used the GPS to find where they were taken."

"How did you manage that? This guy's been knocking out every electrical device he's gone up against."

"Devices that are turned on, yes. You don't need a GPS to be turned on to trace it—"

His explanation trails off as the computer in his cowl alerts him to someone setting off the motion sensors he planted a half-hour earlier. The thief was gone by the time Tim arrived at this warehouse, but he knew he would be back.

_Showtime._

The shipping area is surprisingly empty but based on the security-feeds he's hacked into dozens of stolen relics—paintings, sculptures and photographs fill the office. The ones he used as bait—a series of Edo-period _shunga—_have been placed with some prominence in the middle of the room.

He adjusts the screens within his cowl, toggling through nine different enhanced vision modes before he settles on heat-vision. Since cameras don't seem to pick up this thief, he's hoping thermal radiation will be a better bet.

Leather shifts and out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jason crouch down beside him.

_Looks like he's fine with us teaming up, at least. _

Out loud, he says, "Wait for my signal. We have to confirm before we engage."

"Sir, yes, sir," is the snarky reply.

Tim rolls his eyes and settles back into his observational position.

Jason doesn't like silence, or at least that's what Tim thinks because he can't think of a single instance where they worked together that the older vigilante didn't run his mouth. Even now, he only manages for several minutes of quiet, shifting his weight back and forth impatiently, before he asks, "So what's _your_ interest in this? Gotham's elite getting duped isn't really your thing anymore. The way I hear, you're a lot more international these days."

Tim's eyes don't leave the window.

"This _is_ international. There were similar crimes committed in Boston last week, which stopped once the thefts started here in Gotham. Before Boston it was St. John's, before that Dublin, London—as far as I can tell, it originated in Amsterdam."

"What's in Amsterdam?"

"Besides spider assassins and stroopwafel? Catwoman. Except it can't be her because when the second spate of incidents started up in London, she was in Innsbruck casing the Swarovski exhibit."

"Then how'd you get a beat on this guy? I got nothing from the security footage. It's like most of it was erased or malfunctioned."

"It wasn't easy. Vague witness statements and enhancing whatever footage was available, which barely helped. By accident, I caught something reflected in a shop window and that was the most tangible evidence."

"So the guy doesn't show up on cameras, but still has a reflection. So not a vampire."

"Not human, either, I think. Somehow, this guy made it from Dublin to St. John's without being flagged by any checkpoint or even Customs. There are no flight manifests, commercial or charter, that include passengers of his description. Or line up with his times of disappearance. I've got a second-hand witness description of him in a Boston lounge at ten o'clock last Monday. Fifteen minutes later on the same day, someone saw him walking around the Wedgewood Museum here in Gotham."

"That's where the first theft took place." Jason makes crosses his arms. "Even if he had access to a plane that travels Mach 1, he wouldn't get here that fast. Meta?"

"It's the only explanation that makes sense, since it looks like whatever his powers, he can turn them off and on at will. Probably only uses them when he's committing the break-ins."

"And the—wait. There he is."

They both go silent and watch the suspect enter.

It's a bit anticlimactic.

Steven Howard looks nothing like a suave master thief that can stir up lustful feelings in anyone. Slender, perhaps as tall as Tim but with a slighter build, dressed in skinny jeans, several layers of shirts and thick black gloves. His dirty blond hair is literally filthy, hanging in the mats that white people try to pass off as dreadlocks, and he's wearing tinted shades. Inside. At night.

Jason is just as unimpressed.

"Are you kidding me?" he hisses. "This scrawny, pale douche wearing sunglasses at night? He looks like someone didn't realize Woodstock is over."

They continue to observe as Howard shuffles into the middle of the room, carrying a huge paper bad with what appears to be enough Batburger to feed twelve people.

"It _seems_ consistent with the descriptions I have," Tim says, doubtful. "He just… doesn't seem the type." Jason is already standing, ready to dive through the skylight and confront the guy, but Tim stops him, throwing an arm out in front of him. "If he's a meta, we need to have some idea of his capabilities first."

"Or we knock him out before he knows we're there and figure that out later."

"If you want to get hit with whatever pheromones he gives off, be my guest, I promise I won't take any blackmail videos," Tim says, and that at least makes Jason pause and reassess.

Below, Howard places the takeout on a pile of crates, and strolls over to the Japanese prints. He considers them carefully for several seconds, before shucking his gloves and reaching forward, stroking his hand across the surface. Then, he presses his forehead against it, fingers caressing the edges.

"Clearly not concerned with artifact preservation."

"That's weird, right? Rich people don't usually walk around feeling up pieces of art?"

"I don't know, Hood, do you?"

"I'm not rich."

"You steal literal fortunes from gangsters."

"Yeah, but it's not like I _keep_ much of it. And _I_ didn't grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like a few other people I could name."

"Bite me."

"Kinky."

The other man is obviously being a smart-ass, but Tim still clenches his fist and hopes his cowl is low enough on his face to disguise the flood of color in his cheeks.

Down below, Howard straightens up and tugs his shirts off.

"What the hell?" Jason hisses. "We'd better not be out to watch this guy beat off in front of a painting!"

Before Tim can respond, the lights in the warehouse flicker, as if hit by a sudden power surge. Howard rolls his shoulders, like he's warming up for exercise, and there's an odd _snap_ that echoes even this high up.

Two enormous feathered appendages erupt from the man's back, like something out of a video game, except this is real life. One minute there's nothing occupying the space behind him, and a beat later feathers flare out to both sides, spanning almost the entire office.

"Holy shit. Are those… wings?"

"You mean you're seeing them too? And here I figured I haven't been getting enough sleep."

"Knowing you, probably not."

"Still want to jump in without a plan?"

"Shut up."

Tim's fingers fly over the keyboard of his wrist computer, manually inputting characteristics since he can't seem to capture the guy's face on his device. "Whoever or whatever he is, he's a complete ghost. He doesn't show up on any of the usual databases. Which is surprising, because, _wings?_"

Jason shakes his head, slow as if trying to dispel disbelief. "One thing's for sure, this is definitely our guy…"

There is a squeal of tires from behind them, and Tim's head whips toward the loading dock below the warehouse. He fiddles with his wrist computer, tapping into satellite imagery to see from the angle he can't. A half dozen black SUVs swerve into the lot and a wave of men pile out, dressed in black and carrying a varied assortment of firearms.

_And there goes the rest of my plan…_

⁂

Jason creeps to the edge of the warehouse roof to check out the new arrivals, cursing against the newest complication; Red Robin showing up on his patrol and skinny white boys with wings weren't bad enough, now he's got to deal with gangster too?

_This was supposed to be an easy night. Break a few bones, shatter a kneecap or two, then go finish off that leftover pizza._

He suspects that whatever this is, it's going to take up the rest of his patrol.

"Who is it?" Tim wants to know, no doubt fiddling with his fancy tech to, like, use satellite imagining figuring it out instead using his _eyes._

_Nerd._

"I'm seeing a lot of Kalashnikovs and Makarovs," Jason replies, tapping his comm so he doesn't need to shout and give away their position.

"Russian? Ivgene maybe?"

"Bratva, I think. Those guys've been trying to push into Gotham since Alex Kosov got arrested and the Odessa Mob started to flounder."

"Hm. I think you're right. I'm going over the list of theft vics again, and Ishmael Knyazev is on it."

"Knyazev…why does that sound familiar—wait. Like _Anatoly _Knyazev? KGBeast?"

"His younger brother."

"Shit."

"I'm pretty sure those Degas' down there in the warehouse belong to him."

"Guess he holds a grudge…"

Down on the pavement, the men spread out, a bulky guy bearing some resemblance to Slade Wilson but without the muscles gives orders. He barks at his men to surround the building, ordering them to retrieve the paintings and whatever else appears valuable, and detain the thief for their boss to speak to.

Jason snorts, because he knows what constitutes a Russian mafia talking-to. Steven Howard, or whoever he is, is about to have a lot in common with a plucked turkey. Assuming he goes quietly, which Jason isn't entirely sure of; they still don't know what wing-boy is capable of.

As he returns to the skylight, he notes Tim already standing and doing a pat-down check of his equipment.

"If they're here to address a grudge with this guy, we need to get down there before it gets ugly. I figure we have about four minutes before they infiltrate the place."

"What happened to not just jumping in?"

"About two dozen Bratva members."

"Yeah, so? What should we care?" Jason counters. "A bunch of scumbags tearing each other apart sounds like a night off to me. And if Feathers there takes a bullet or three, even better."

Tim faces him dead-on then, and Jason can imagine the reproachful look beneath his stupid cowl. "Theft isn't a capital offense."

"Rape is."

In his mind, anyway.

"Not according to New Jersey Law, and _we_ don't get to make that call. That's what the courts are for, and that's where this guy is going after I interrogate him."

Jason huffs and narrows his eyes. "We really gonna have this discussion now, kid?"

Tim bristles and turns away.

"No," he retorts, "because we don't have time. I'm going in—with or without you."

And without sparing another glance at him, Tim takes a running leap and jumps through the skylight to mitigate impending disaster.

Jason remains still for a beat, watching as Red Robin plummet through the air to the warehouse below, glass and metal exploding around him, and then curses.

Because, of course his replacement is going to make it his business. Jason's perfectly content to let these low lives take each other out—death by mobster is a pretty karmic fate for a rapist, in his opinion.

Tim hits the ground several feet behind their mark, who whirls around and stares with wide eyes. The feathers in his giant wings puff up, and he bends into a defensive crouch, a snarl upon his lips.

"Who the—_you_! What are _you_ doing here?" 'Howard' snaps, clenching his fists.

"Getting you out of here before you become a pincushion," Red Robin growls, snapping a hand outward to grab at him. "And you're going to answer some questions."

"Don't _touch_ me—!"

"Then get moving, or we're both—"

Apparently, Tim's estimate was about three minutes off, because there are muffled explosions from the entrances of the warehouse and then the mobsters are piling in, shouting commands and threats, guns in hand.

"—in trouble."

Several men fire warning shots into the air, some of which bury themselves in the frame of the portraits nearest Tim and Howard, who gives a growl and shoves away from Tim, stalking toward the incoming threat. His wings flare up in anger. "You brutes _dare_ to—!"

But his approach startles the mobsters, who apparently weren't expecting to encounter a shirtless winged man coming after them.

_Easily startled and trigger-happy—never a good combination._

Tim's leg snaps out, sweeping Steve's feet out from under him, just in time to save him from the next wave of bullets ripping through the air where his head was. As Tim lands on the ground with one hand, he uses his other to throw a fistful of R-shuriken that embed themselves in the shoulder of the nearest mobster, who drops his gun with pained curses.

_Ah, hell._

Jason leaps over the ruined frame of the skylight.

If anyone asks later, it's because he doesn't want to explain to Alfred why the poster child of the family got killed in a mob shoot-out on his watch.

(And yes, _just_ Alfred, because while everyone else can go fuck themselves, the number one rule of the family is that you don't upset the kindly old Englishman that puts up with _literal_ batshit.)

But the reality is, he's not about to let the only Bat he trusts become riddled with bullets.

Tim isn't his family, or a friend—they don't know each other well enough for that—but there's always been a kind of certainty to him, so Jason knows exactly where he stands with the other vigilante. And that he can turn his back on him without having to worry about an incoming knife or a nerve-strike.

When they first met, he zeroed in on Tim because of lingering resentment and a burning desire for vengeance on his replacement, misdirected as that might have been. Now that he's mostly over the madness of the Lazarus Pit and endured a few grudging family team-ups in the face of Gotham's usual psychopaths, his tendency to cross paths with Red Robin feels like it's motivated by something more complicated. There's a connection between them, a shared experience of being the replacement that no one really wanted, constantly measured against the legacy of their predecessor and then cast aside with painful ease. They're outsiders in the family, in a way that neither Dick nor Damian will ever be, and in his own screwed up way, Jason is a bit protective of the kid.

(Not that he intends ever to admit that.)

So yeah, going after Tim isn't really a choice.

_Can't promise I won't shoot that winged fucker for causing all this trouble, though._

As he lands in a heavy crouch, Jason notices Tim's mouth part in surprise; he can't help being insulted by that.

Sure, they're relationship can at best be described as limbo, but the kid should know by now Jason no longer hates him with a fiery passion. If he must partner with any of the Bats, he sticks close by Tim, and not only because he has less trouble asking him for help than Dick or Bruce.

(Seriously, the last time he called in a favor with Dick, he couldn't even get the word out.)

Tim, back on his feet now, sends another hapless gunman flying in Jason's direction with a well-placed right hook; the guy's eyes go wide at the sight of the Red Hood, who swings and backhands him into unconsciousness. As the body goes limp, Jason grabs the falling gun with one hand, and uses the other to prop the mobster up as a shield.

Shoving him out in front of him, Jason ducks behind the body to avoid the rain of bullets now coming at him courtesy of this guy's buddies, carefully inching forward behind his human shield.

"No killing!" Red Robin snaps from across the room; he tosses a tiny device at two more guys, and as it explodes, a controlled concussive blast knocks them to the ground.

"_I'm_ not killing anyone."

"You're not exactly preventing it!"

"Everyone's a critic…"

Still, at the next opportune moment, he throws the man aside and shoots the guns out of the hands of the three shooters, before whirling around to kneecap the fourth that sneaks up from behind him.

One of the injured men tries to come at him again, this time with a knife, but Jason ducks the clumsy blow with ease, punching him in the gut and dragging him into a headlock as he doubles over. He swings him to the ground, takes another shot to hobble him, and then ducks as the two other mobsters crowd him.

Howard looks like he's trying to inch away from the firefight, but he's sent back to the ground with a well-placed tap from Red Robin's bo staff.

"Don't go flying off just yet," Tim growls, then vaults over him and puts himself between the winged man and another cadre of mobsters, sweeping his cape in front of them both to shield them.

_Must have upgraded it to be bulletproof since I last saw him…_

Jason throws one arm up to catch a downward swing from his nearest opponent, twists his body to avoid his comrade, and then strikes the latter in the face, rolling and twisting the arm in his grasp to send the man backward. Both now on the floor, he downs them with two precise shots to the knees, and then stalks forward to finish another with a front-kick to the sternum.

_Nine down—how many left?_

There's a lull in the gunfire, and Jason engages his helmet's infrared system to find the remaining mobsters; they appear to be retreating for the moment, but the thermal readings suggest they aren't going far.

"Got an exit strategy?" he prompts, backing toward Tim and their hapless charge, guns still primed to shoot.

"You seriously still need to ask?"

"Does it involve going up? Because I don't think that's going to work."

Tim follows Jason's gaze toward the skylight where the Slade lookalike is perched, disengaging the safety on what Jason recognizes almost too late as a Dragunov.

_And ten to one the fucker's primed with armor-piercing rounds!_

There's only time for Jason to get one person down and to safety, and between the winged bastard that caused all of this, and Tim, there's no contest.

He vaults forward as the first shots thunder through the air, throwing himself at Tim as bullets careen into Howard. Jason doesn't know if it hits him anywhere vital, but they do pierce through the thick wings, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Several of the same bullets plow into Jason's shoulder when he can't quite move out of the way in time. He feels blood blossoming across his skin—not the numbing, bone-deep ache of a major injury, but more of a graze—as he lands on Tim's less than cushioning body.

"Christ, kid, eat a sandwich," he growls, tightening his hold on the kid and rolling them both out of the path of fire. With an inelegant inchworm crawl that should embarrass anyone trained by Dick Grayson, he manages to get them over to a bunch of crates to provide cover.

It's just in time, too, since another stray bullet glances across Jason's helmet; this isn't as lucky as the body armor. The screen shatters and his comm fizzles out from the force of the shot, and Jason snarls out a breathless oath at the pain and sudden disorientation.

There's another dull roar, a second round of automatic fire, and this time its Tim knocking him out of its path, dragging them lower down behind the crates.

A beat later, Jason senses fingers scrabbling at the catches of his helmet—

"Ja—! Hood—you alrigh—?!"

And then the helmet is off, and Tim looms over him. He is surprisingly clear in Jason's vision considering the hit he just took. The cowl hides his eyes, but the way his jaw clenches suggests worry.

Something shoots through Jason then, hitting him like a blow to the gut, as if someone snuck up behind him and sucker-punched him. But there's no one near him except Tim, probably wouldn't coldcock someone while he's down.

For a moment, Jason imagines the entire world slows, and the roar of gunfire fades out, replaced by a puzzling whispering that drowns everything else out:

** _"—should e'er I go, will you go with me-?"_ **

** _"—come back to me—"_ **

** _"—I would that you would leave them all to perish—"_ **

** _"—bury us together—"_ **

There's a harsh, swooping sensation in his stomach and Jason gasps for breath, the pain of the action refocussing him on his immediate surroundings. Sound returns, the echoing words bleeding into Red Robin's voice in an eerie double timbre.

"Hood, answer me! Are you okay?!" Red Robin demands, and then lowers his voice into a hiss, "_Jason_!"

Physically shaking his head to clear it, Jason forces his concentration past the strange haze surrounding him and pushes the other vigilante away, pausing only briefly to assess that he hasn't been shot too.

"Not cool, man, secret identity, remember?" he grumbles.

"You're still wearing a mask," Tim shoots back, but what would normally sound waspish for him sounds tense. "Or half of one at least."

Jason grunts in response, digging into his pocket for the spare domino he keeps on hand, peels the backing off the adhesive strip and fixes it to his face. He peeks around the edge of the crates to study the sniper up high, while Tim cranes to check on their mark; Howard is still moving, shoulders and wings shifting like he's trying to get up. They need to get him out of the line of fire, much as Jason would rather not, and stop the guy from bleeding out.

Another barrage of bullets demolishes the top edges of the crates.

"Police are on their way," Tim tells him, flicking something on his wrist computer.

"Awesome. Just in time to identify our corpses."

"As if you haven't had worse," Tim snorts, studying the projected display. "All the exits are covered; unfriendlies on our four, six and nine."

"And the one up top."

Another bullet embeds itself three inches from Jason's head. He and Tim consider each other for a second, and the younger man digs another handful of gadgets from his bandolier. He juts his chin at the skylight, his meaning plain, and Jason nods.

_Simple enough plan. Of course, it'd be nice if there was something to distract them a bit more. I really don't want to get shot again just now—_

Their buddy Howard decides that's the optimal moment to try to get up again, pushing himself to his feet with a snarl. His wings unfurl with a _whump_ sound, the blast of air rippling from them sending a few of the nearer mobsters staggering. It has the added effect of drawing their attention, and for a moment, there's a lull in the amount of projectiles heading for Jason and Tim as the gunmen focus on the new threat.

"That'll work."

"Go!"

They burst out from behind the crates, Jason already shooting several rounds at the sniper up top, while Tim flings a handful of circular pods at the nearest enemies. This first wave of devices are knockout gas, which downs the two closest mobsters and makes Steve cough and stagger.

Jason's target pulls back to avoid his attack, but isn't fast enough, ends up taking a shot to the calf and staggering forward. He plummets to the ground, and there's a familiar sound of bone cracking—_Sorry, asshole, that sounded like a femur—_and then Jason swings around to take out the trio sneaking up on them from behind.

Tim automatically ducks beneath his arms, neatly avoiding the barrage of bullets, and tosses another handful of gadgets; this time, upon contact, wires snap out and wrap around the attackers, making several overbalance while the others lose grip on their weapons. Jason's clip is empty now, and so he drops his own guns, pulls out the modified grapple gun and fires; it punches through the shoulder of one guy, and Jason retracts it, pulling him forward and then downing him with a punch to the jaw.

Red Robin's last device is something metallic that lands in the middle of the floor and vibrates with a startling intensity; Jason's about to make a lewd joke, when his grapple is tugged out of his hands—along with every other metallic weapon nearby, which collect in a pile around the device.

"Really?" Jason grouses.

"Like you really need a weapon," Tim shoots back; he's already got his bo staff primed and ready—_Must be made of some non-metallic polymer this time around_—and sweeps the legs out from under some stragglers.

Jason decides to show his feelings on the matter by plowing forward and brawling with the remaining members of the mob. He doesn't pull his punches, listening to the snap of forearms and crack of broken ankles and cries of pain.

And as suddenly as it started, it's quiet again.

The warehouse is in ruins—along with quite a few of the relics.

Howard gapes around. "You animals. You absolute savages! You just…look at this!"

"Hope you have insurance," Jason quips.

"Don't really care if you don't," Tim adds, bringing out one of the remaining pods; he snaps it open before Steven can say anything, and rope wires explode outward to wrap around him, wings and all. "Now, let's go have a conversation before the police show up."

Grabbing hold of the guy by the front, he fires his grapple and flies upward; Jason stares after him for a bit longer than a blink, shakes his head. After tugging his grapple out of the pile of weapons (with more difficulty than he'd like), he follows.

Sirens scream in the distance, as he and Tim face down the winged man who is teetering a bit as he tries to keep balance.

"Well, that's just rude," he mutters, his pinched expression reminiscent of Damian's permanently constipated look. "And a waste, really."

He closes his eyes in concentration, and the wings vanish, causing Tim's bindings to loosen. Both Tim and Jason leap forward to grab him in case he tries to make a run for it, but he sidesteps them with surprising ease.

"Knock it off, I'm not going anywhere," he snaps before they can try again. "What's the point, you just _destroyed_ my pad."

"You'd think you'd be more bothered about having been shot," Tim deadpans, and then studies the shirtless man with a frown on his lips. "Or not."

There isn't a sign injury on him.

"I heal fast."

"Good to know," Jason says.

Without another word, he snaps head forward and headbutts the pasty-faced bastard. Who crumples to the ground once more.

"Hood!" Red Robin cries in protest and recrimination.

"What? It was that or a bullet."

Red Robin pulls him backward and away from their detainee, mouth turning downward. Jason intends to mirror the expression right back—he isn't in the mood for Tim's bitch-face—but his vision falters a bit, tunneling a little as it settles on Tim's form.

_Okay, so that was a bad idea. If I didn't have a concussion _before_…_

"Man, you really shouldn't have done that…" their winged detainee mumbles, picking himself back off the ground and glares at Jason through bleary, bloodshot eyes. "I mean, if you weren't screwed before by the bullet, you _definitely _will be now." His gaze flicks to Tim, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a way Jason doesn't like. "Probably quite literally."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jason snaps, finger itching towards a trigger once again.

"That's not important," Tim interrupts. "I want to know who this guy is. Metas tend to avoid Gotham."

"Well, darling, I'm not a meta."

"Then what the hell are you? Because those wings ain't human," Jason growls. "And this is the only time we'll ask nicely."

The winged man draws himself up, somehow managing to loom despite the fact he's perhaps an inch taller than Tim and narrows his eyes at them like he's looking at vermin.

"I am Eros," he says, lifting his chin, "the God of Love."

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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_😢 = you got me right in the feels_

_😫 = whyyyyyyy?!_

_Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates-or just to drop me a line :)_


	2. II

**Author's Note(s):**

Someone sent a comment asking this, so I thought I'd put it here for anyone who's interested to see.

Eros is a semi-canon character. He's sort of a mixture of mythological and DC version, as Eros did appear in the DCU in a few issues of Wonder Woman. In the DC (New Earth era) canon, he's the son of Ares and Aphrodite, so I stuck to the later Greek writers and of course, the version of him portrayed in Apuleius "Cupid and Psyche". I threw in stuff I knew about him from mythology and then let his character kind of blossom on its own. -Vee

* * *

Predictably, Jason is the first to respond to that.

"Bullshit."

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes because he's sure the reaction is more Jason being oppositional than actual doubt. They're staring at a guy that until a few minutes ago had giant black wings sprouting from his shoulders, who's been collecting suggestive art and carving a swath of hedonism across the city. They've dealt with stranger things and less plausible explanations.

"God of Love?" he inquires. "You mean, like Cupid?"

"Gaia, I hate that name. Stupid little Valentine's Day mascot. I blame the Romans. The Hellenistic was great, except for that." He waves a dismissive hand. "I mostly go by Steve these days. Cuts down on the explanation time."

Which just…what?

"Steve, the God of Love," Jason deadpans. "Because that doesn't sound like a cringy mascot at all…"

"Why are you in Gotham?" Tim asks, more direct this time.

"And what the hell are you dosing people with that they're all down to fuck without remembering it? I don't know how it works wherever you came from, but here that's assault."

"I've never assaulted anyone!" Eros protests, all wounded integrity. "If anything, I've been the one people keep jumping ever since my bow and arrows got stolen."

"Your _bow and arrows_? That's seriously the defense you're going with?"

"How does one steal from a god?"

"You wait until he's stoned out of his mind in an Amsterdam coffee shop and knock him out," Eros grouses. "It's either brilliance or suicidal madness. I'll decide which one after I track down the bastard that did it and give them a reminder that I'm Ares' son as much as Aphrodite's."

"Right," Tim says, raising an eyebrow. "On that note, if you've got all these divine connections, why don't you just get new weapons made?"

"If it were that simple you think I'd have dragged myself to this armpit of the universe? The bow and arrows act as a constant diviner for my abilities. It focusses them or controls them if you will. Otherwise, my powers veer wildly out of control."

"What powers?" Jason snorts. "If you had anything beyond your feathers, you wouldn't have been so useless with those mob assholes and made us do all the heavy lifting."

Eros' eyes turn hard and his lips pull into a cold smile. He reaches for Jason's face and wriggles his fingers threateningly. "Would you care to find out?"

Not wanting to give Jason a time to respond by breaking the digits in his face, Tim places himself in front of him.

"Both of you, knock it off—"

His move manages to divert the Olympian from losing fingers, but it also puts him straight in his path. Impossibly soft finger pads graze his jaw, and it is as if a current of electricity has been passed through his spine.

Tim seizes up, his brain going cloudy and his stomach suddenly hot and trembling. Sight and sound vanish or rather sharpen to a single point, the figure in front of him, and a visceral _want_ edges out every other thought and impulse.

He is dimly aware of moving, of being rivetted at the individual motions that bring him into Eros' personal space, and which have him fixing his upon the other man's shoulders. Then he's dragging him forward and crushing their mouths together.

The taste and smell of pomegranate and ozone overwhelm him, and he doesn't wait for reciprocation before he's shoving his tongue into the Olympian's mouth, harshly trying to chase the unique flavor. All other intent vanishes in the single-minded pursuit of that goal, and he wonders if it's not just his mouth that tastes like this, if the rest of him—

"What the fuck?!" Hands grab him roughly and he's being jerked backward, stumbling into an unyielding armored chest. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Tim whines at the loss. "No—I need— he—"

Words aren't really a workable thing right now, not in the face of the fact the world suddenly seems _colder_.

There's a clicking sound, and then Tim's world tilts as if he just stood up too fast. When his wits return, he realizes that Jason is holding him up with one arm, practically lining them up from ankle to armpit. His other hand is elevated, semi-automatic pointed at Eros' forehead, glaring him down as if daring him to get closer.

The Olympian raises in slow surrender.

"Just making a point," he tells them with a butter-wouldn't-melt expression that could do Dick proud. His voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.

"Try it again. See how it works out without a head."

Every passing second brings reality back into sharp relief, and with it a mounting sense of dread.

"I…please tell me I didn't just do that," Tim says, mortified and still punch drunk. He was never even that forward with _Steph_.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a flash of irritation flicker across Jason's face, and then the older vigilante fixes Eros with a look of utter loathing that Tim's only ever seen when he goes up against one of the crazier rogues. Black Mask or Scarecrow, maybe. That usually precedes extreme violence, which they don't need right now. They need detachment, to look at this clinically.

(And he needs to focus on something else to erase the fact he just tongue-kissed the God of Love in front of his childhood crush.)

"What _was_ that?"

"I project a field across the surface of my skin that causes instant sexual arousal and frenzy in any living creature. The longer you're exposed to it, the stronger and longer-lasting the effects—and the more the out of control you get."

"So basically, you're a walking Viagra date-rape drug," Jason sneers.

"It's not _supposed_ to be like that…"

"Again, I call bullshit. I remember all the stories. Whenever you're involved, someone ends up falling for someone else without having a choice and bad shit happens. Helen of Troy ringing any bells?"

Eros crosses his arms, resembling Damian at his most petulant; meanwhile, Tim stares at Jason, who notices and scowls back. "What?"

"How do you know that?"

"I have depths," he replies, tone mildly defensive.

"The stories get so much wrong. Blame primitive writers and centuries of telephone for that," Eros mutters. "Here's the deal—my mother, she's got the make-people-fall-in-love juju. The overwhelming, powerful, love-at-first-sight thing that basically causes the honeymoon period of a relationship. You know, that point where you only see the good qualities in a person?"

Tim exchanges a perplexed look with Jason; he's never been in a relationship with anyone where he saw _only _their good qualities, and judging by the older vigilante's blank expression, neither has he.

"Right, forgot who I'm talking to. You cape types aren't exactly the hallmark of romance, are you?"

"Yeah, well, you deity types aren't exactly the hallmark of not getting punched."

"We've already established why that would be a bad idea," Tim mutters, his ears burning.

"I'm wearing gauntlets."

"In a _healthy_ relationship," Eros goes on, ignoring the byplay, "sure, you spend a bit of time totally enamored with your boo. They're your world. But after a while, that starts to fade. Some people, okay, they've stuck together for the getting-to-know-you period and decide to keep going. But others—they get a very real sense of buyer's remorse."

"Like Helen did. Or Phaedra or Atalanta," Jason suggests, and Tim frowns; he only recognizes one of those names.

"Exactly. They realized they'd compromised themselves and ruined their lives for some petty asshole without even knowing it. And they couldn't exactly do anything about it—in the old days, you were stuck with the guy and you had to make the best of it since, you know, no divorce. Nowadays, it's not so bad—those whirlwind romances don't last, but it's not the end of the world. Celebrities are famous for them. Literally."

"I don't understand what all this has to do with you being here and now," Tim says.

"I'm getting there. I was giving you guys context, geez! Anyway, with _me,_ it's a little different. It's more than just that love-at-first-sight, quick and dirty thing. It's about _desire_. That bone-deep connection, all need and hunger and slow-burning." His face relaxes, mouth easing into a fond smile. "It was a deeper thrall than anything Mom had the patience for. With my tools, I could awaken that—in a controlled fashion—and focus it. But now—well, you saw what I can do with just a touch."

Tim's cheeks flame.

"The longer I don't have my tools to temper me, my abilities will become more unstable. You ever see people literally fuck each other to death?" Eros challenges. "Trust me, you don't want to. And it's not just sex people desire. This one guy pissed me off once and I made him develop an unhealthy desire for corned beef—"

"If you know your power is about to go Chernobyl, why the hell are you running around town robbing people? You'd think you have more important things to worry about."

"It's _because_ I'm losing control that I've been doing that."

Tim narrows his eyes, even if no one can see it. "Explain."

"Over time, artists pour their souls and creative desires into their work—into the canvas, the clay, the paint, whatever. There's a magic in the creative act that turns a medium into a vessel. I've been having to bleed off my power into these vessels so I can get out and search for my diviners without causing riots. The process takes hours, though, and people generally don't like me standing in a museum touching the merchandise."

"So you steal it."

"It eventually finds its way back. And their original owners usually find that the pieces seem somehow more—magnetic—once I'm done with them."

"I don't know how you made that sound dirty, but you did," Jason grumbles.

"Are you kidding? I _created_ innuendo. And the double entendre." Eros makes a dismissive gesture. "Anyhow, it's all moot. I won't be capable of bleeding off my powers for much longer. As you just saw, my control is slipping. So, you two are going to have to find my bow and arrow for me."

Tim blinks at the sudden turn of the conversation. "What?"

"Right. Because we don't have enough of our own shit to deal with, we're going to go on a scavenger hunt for some entitled godling? That's not how we operate."

"You won't have much of a choice," Eros replies, and there's a cruel edge to his smile now. "Not if you want to save your life."

"That a threat, buddy?"

"Oh, I've no need for threats. It's already done." Eros points at the still bleeding wound on Jason's shoulder. "When you saved bird-boy here, you got tagged by the same bullet I did; my blood's in your veins now. And unless it's because of the horizontal tango, there are some really nasty side-effects when Olympian blood gets in your frail systems." His smile remains cold and cruel. "Mine's particularly nasty."

Jason crosses his arms, radiating skepticism. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been poisoned. Probably won't be the last."

"It's not _poison,_ per se," Eros muses. "More like a virus that manifests as an intense, increasingly growing desire that will turn you mad and cook your brain unless you find a way to stop it. And the only cure, I'm afraid, is to be, heh, _pricked_ by one of my arrows."

"And who the hell am I supposed to be desiring? Because if it's you, I'm going to claw my eyes out now and get it over with."

"Thankfully that's not the case. While I'm sure you would look amazing splayed out in my bed, that doesn't exactly give your friend here any incentive to help me." He considers Tim a moment, and his smile turns knowing. "Or perhaps it would."

"Why me?" Tim asks, trying to keep his voice level. A sudden spike or worry shoots through him at one possibility. "Anyone else could do this."

"Uh, you're the first person Helmet Head set eyes on after being infected? Honestly, it's right there in the myths."

"I was never into the classics," Tim mutters, breathing a sigh of relief; none of this has anything to do with his ill-advised crush, which means Jason doesn't have to know about it. "If it's just me being around him, I can stay away from him. It's not like it's hard."

_I wish that weren't true._

Jason is staring at him oddly and Tim's stomach jumps at his inability to interpret anything through the lenses of his mask.

"Okay, princess, let me know how that goes," Eros chuckles.

Tim swallows.

He knows that Olympians have power—that their relics do, as well; how could he not, considering he's known Cassie and Diana for so long?

Still, it's laughable that Jason could ever _desire_ him.

(There's only a little pain and bitterness in that knowledge.)

Jason appears to be on the same wavelength.

"I call bullshit. I'm not in the habit of lusting after people I've tried to kill. Bit counterproductive, you know?"

"You might resist it for a little while," Eros allows. "Looks aside, you capes have a lot of restraint. And it's not like I was feeding you my blood or anything, so it might take a little longer still. But even that will fade as the infection spreads."

For the first time since Eros' threat, Jason shifts uneasily.

"Now," the Olympian says, rubbing his hands together, "while watching you two get down and dirty in front of me would be good entertainment—" he leers at them both in a way that makes Jason tense like he's going to punch him again and Tim consider letting him, "—I don't have the time. I need the two of you on your game as much as possible if you're going to help me."

"Who says we're going to help you? We could just hand you over to Wonder Woman and have her deal with this. Gods and mythological relics are more her areas of expertise."

"Ah, but my dear cousin won't have the same…motivation that you do, darlin'. Unless you want Prince Charming over here to get to the point of losing his mind over you?" Eros tilts his head toward Jason. "I mean, I guess that's your choice. He _is_ a bit of a douche—"

"I will rip off those wings of yours and stuff them up your—"

Tim grabs Jason and pulls him back a few feet so he can speak to him quietly, but keep an eye on Eros. Almost instantly Jason shoves him off as if he's just been burned, and Tim raises his hands in surrender.

"Arguing with him obviously isn't going to do anything," he informs him.

"He's obviously lying—trying to mess with us to do his bidding."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Until we know if this is truth or a bluff, we need to put him in a safe location. He needs to be tried for the thefts, regardless of his reasons. And since he has abilities, we'll need a facility that can cancel-out meta powers."

"Just keep him the fuck out of Belle Reve," Jason grumbles. "We don't need him ending up as one of Waller's not-so-secret projects."

"And in the meantime, we monitor your condition," Tim goes on. "Back at the Cave, B has—"

"I'm not going to the damn Cave."

"J—_Hood_, if he's telling even part of the truth, you could be in trouble."

"Because I'm going to lose my mind over your scrawny ass? I don't think so." He turns away. "Screw this, I'm out. You can figure this out. Gods are above my paygrade."

He has his grapple gun out and an instant later vanishes into the night. And it's like any other patrol; barely an acknowledgment of their team-up or thanks or farewell.

"He shouldn't have done that," Eros says, shaking his head. "Bad things happen when you repress your desires. It comes out in ugly ways."

Irritation sparks in Tim.

"That bullet that went through your wing—has it healed yet?" he asks tersely, rummaging in his utility belt as he approaches the Olympian. "I can't see since they…disappeared."

"It's not gushing blood anymore, but there's still a dirty great hole there. Why?"

Without warning, Tim turns around and sticks a syringe into his neck, careful not to brush any skin accidentally as he pushes down the plunger.

"What the fu—" Eros' words cut off with a gurgle.

"Just need to know how much time I have before the sedative wears off," Tim replies. It was designed with Wonder Woman in mind, so he really hopes it's strong enough.

The Olympian pitches forward. Tim catches him, and curses at the weight he hadn't expected; wherever those wings are, they still contribute to the body's overall mass, it seems.

**⁂**

Jason makes a beeline for his safe house on the Upper West Side; the events of the night have been such a disappointment that he figures he deserves to crash at one of his more comfortable properties. Somewhere with good heating and decent water pressure and a few of his favorite books tucked away.

"Not the leftover pizza I was looking forward to, but it'll do," he murmurs to himself. To be honest, his appetite's all but disappeared in the wake of tonight's revelations.

Not that Jason is concerned about whatever Eros or Steve or whatever-his-name-is told them. Some guy calls himself the god of love and informs Jason he's been infected with an unholy desire that's going to drive him mad and kill him?

"Been there. Done that. And for Drake of all people? _Pfft. _Please."

The Condiment King had more credibility.

Besides, even if it was a believable threat, it's not as if he's going to just accept it. Jason's always had issues with other people telling him what to do, and he's been on the wrong end of Poison Ivy's concoctions far too often for that. If there's a chance something's going to impact or impair his control over his own actions, he's got a problem with that.

And it's just…it's _Tim Drake._

Jason has been carefully trying to reconfigure his mental categorization of the guy for years, from 'Replacement—Must Beat To Death On Sight', to 'Timbers—Ally-Possibly-Friend-Kinda-Brother-Sort Of?'. It's still a work-in-progress figuring out which category he fits in, and Jason doesn't need to add more complications, such as those that will no doubt ensue if he considers adding any _other_ relationship dimensions.

Not like the kid's a terrible catch or anything. Jason saw that long before he figured out he isn't one hundred percent straight. But that was his own discovery, born of conscious choice. Not from someone telling him in plain English that he's got no choice but to develop a thing for a workaholic pretty-boy Bat with self-esteem issues.

Which means on principle, Jason's damn well going to fight that. It doesn't matter that Tim's intelligent, sarcastic and the right kind of risky, or that he isn't repulsive or even unattractive—

Jason adamantly cuts off that line of thinking when he realizes where it's going, touching down on the roof of his building a little harder than necessary.

"Nope. Not going there."

_Talk about a mind-fuck. Asshole Steve got me thinking about it, and now I won't be able to _not_ think about it whenever I run into the kid._

And isn't that a keen bit of psychological manipulation?

Luckily, Jason's been trained by more than one master in the art of avoidance. He forces his attention onto the routine of checking the perimeter and disabling his security system, then slipping into his apartment through the roof-access.

"Hello, safe house," he mutters out of habit, heading for his bathroom. Once inside, he methodically checks himself for injuries, which are overall minor. The bullet wound in his shoulder is scabbing over already.

He tries to ignore the uneasy clench in his stomach at that and the prevalent thought of _that is not a good sign. _

He heads for the shower and turns the water on as hot as he can stand, letting it distract him, unwinding the knots and tension holding him together. Once he's out, he throws on a pair of boxer briefs and settles in the center of his bed to meditate. It takes longer tonight to get his brain and still-racing heartrate to ease, to remember his All-Caste training and seek acceptance in the darkest part of his soul, and the possibility that that will be enough to counteract whatever real or imagined threat was made by the so-called god of love.

Dawn is peeking over Gotham's horizon when he finally manages to calm himself down and pass out. For once, he sleeps; for once he doesn't dream of Glasgow smiles and green sludge.

When he wakes up, it's with odd energy that borders on manic. He powers through his morning workout at full intensity and still has energy left over, which he uses to cook breakfast and a few advance meals that he can stick in the freezer for the next time he holes up here. All his safe houses include have decent food storage since he never knows when lying low is going to translate as 'disappear completely off the grid for a while.

When he's still buzzing and raring to go, he decides he can't put it off any longer. He's not stupid—has been in the game long enough to know it's pointless to ignore something _completely_ until you've investigated the hell out of it.

Which is how he finds himself down in his would-be-Batcave beneath One Police Plaza running a full set of blood panels and other diagnostics to see if there's an actual sign of contamination from the tainted bullet. And when everything comes back negative, he even checks in with Doc Thompkins for her two cents worth that nothing is the matter with him.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you, Jason, everything's coming up normal," Thompkins tells him. "The only thing I can recommend is the same thing I always do—stop smoking."

"But then I wouldn't have an excuse to come see you so you can scold me," he grins at her, earning an arch look above the rim of her glasses.

Still, he remains antsy even after leaving the clinic and decides he needs to calm his nerves.

There's a coffee shop on Winchester he's taken to because they do tea as close to Alfred's as possible, at least what he's found in Gotham. The teenaged girl at the counter blushes and laughs nervously at him when he smiles and flirts a bit, and he makes sure to tip well because kids in the service industry are paid nothing for being treated like crap.

Still, it's hard to stop himself from drumming his fingers against the counter, his innate impatience ratcheted up today. He knows the place is busy and they can only go as fast as they're going, but—

"An Americano, please. Double shot."

Jason's looking before he even realizes it, and for a split second he expects to see Tim there, sleep-deprived and sheepish, but only finds a blond skater kid and he's—

Not _disappointed_.

He's not.

That's all he needs, is someone in the Family finding out where he goes to get his tea. That might encourage them to try to _hang out_ with him. Especially Dick.

So, no. Not disappointed. Relieved. He's relieved.

(He avoids wondering when he memorized Tim Drake's coffee preferences.)

Jason doesn't stick around the shop like he originally planned, and the tea isn't as calming as he intended after he practically chugs it and heads out. He spends the day running around town, checking in with his informants in the shadier parts of the city and restocking the medical supplies in his safe houses.

He's coming out of the one near Robinson Park when he hears a kid shouting— "Mama, look at the baby bird!"—and his head whips around so fast his muscles scream in protest, and _what the hell_?

Jason turns in the opposite direction and takes the subway.

He's tense and angry as he returns to the base beneath the police station and spends longer than usual letting out his feelings on the punching bag in his gym. Halfway through, his phone rings and Roy's face blinks up from the screen.

"Please tell me you have a job," Jason says in lieu of a greeting.

"What? No. I'm still on vacation."

"Your life is a vacation."

"Yeah, that's why it's so great."

That's said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

"What do you want?"

"I'm working on camouflage field projector, but missing a key component that happens to be in Gotham." Jason closes his eyes, somehow knowing what's coming next. "And I figure, you've got an in—any chance you put in a good word for me with your little brother? The pretty one on all the TV commercials."

"Ask him yourself, I'm not a fucking messenger," Jason growls. "And he's _not_ my brother."

He hangs up and glares at his phone, contemplating whether throwing it at the wall will make him feel better.

_This is _not_ happening… _

The punching bag no longer cutting it, he throws on his gear and heads out for patrol, hoping that will quell the sensation of fire in his blood. Throws himself into it with brutal abandon, the only goal being to take his mind off everything. Violence is the best way to bring him back to the very basest mind frame, where he is focussed only on the thrill of the fight.

It works, for a while.

He hauls a few johns to the curb when they get too rough with the girls, gives a bunch of teens robbing a bodega in his neighborhood something to think about, puts an end to a bar fight when a customer gets handsy with a waitress, stumbles into a domestic dispute with a guy smacking around his kid—

Jason relishes in the sound of broken bones and the reminders of the fact he's the one in control. It almost seems like he's getting back to himself by the end of the evening. He feels more himself, less uneasy; there's still something buzzing beneath his skin, but it's negligible.

_See? It was total bull. God of love my ass, he was just messing with my head._

He takes a moment to rest, gazing out across the skyline and digging for a cigarette. One more loop around the neighborhood, and he'll head home. He's just turning his back against the wind so he can light the cigarette when he finds himself face to face with Tim Drake.

Or rather, a giant billboard with his face on it, advertising the Neon Knights initiative.

The cigarette drops from his hands.

"This is not happening," he murmurs, and he's said that at least once today already, hasn't he?

But it's getting ridiculous. Like he's being shadowed wherever he goes by the specter of Tim, and all because someone else decided to play mind games with him.

_Well, screw that. My head's been messed with enough._

He takes a running leap off the roof, deciding to forgo anymore patrolling. It might be an idea to get out of Gotham for a few days if only to take a break.

But no, he's not being chased out of his own damn city. No one chases the Red Hood out of Gotham, except on occasion Batman, and that's not chasing so much as Jason telling Bruce to fuck off and making a pointed exit. And _Steve_ is no Batman.

_I'm going to take off a few days. Been wound up the past few weeks anyway, it's getting to me. Things will go back to normal as soon as I—_

His shoulders tense as he recognizes the sensation of eyes on him.

Someone's following him.

It's reflex to melt into the shadows of the next building, slipping around so that he can get a good vantage point. If someone's planning an ambush, he's more than happy to turn it around on them. And the mood he's in tonight if it's someone that can give him an actual fight—

There's a sound of someone landing on the rooftop, and the whirring of a grapple line retracting. And then Jason zeroes in on the familiar figure in black and red. That strange knot of anxiety he's been carrying around the whole day lets go as he recognizes him, and in its place, something else springs up, almost like…relief?

Which, no, he should not be relieved to see Red Robin. The only time he should ever be relieved to see the Tim is if he's in the middle of a duel to the death with the Joker and needs back-up from someone capable of thinking a dozen steps ahead.

Relief is replaced with anger, and Jason lies in wait until Tim alights on the same roof, and then slips forward to grab hold of him. He neatly dodges the other vigilante's attempts to free himself from the hold and drags him over to the edge of the roof.

"Jason? What the hell—?"

He ignores him and dangles him over the edge, forcing Tim to grasp at his wrist and hold on tight.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't drop you for not following the rules—you remember, the 'no bats in my territory' rule? I get that it's unofficial and all, but it's still there," he snarls.

"I—I wanted to check on you!" Tim grunts. "It's been twenty-four hours, and—"

"And what? Wanted to check if I was ready to jump your malnourished bones yet? Wouldn't looking for me be a monumentally stupid thing to do if that were the case?" Jason yanks Tim back over the edge and tosses him back onto the roof, gratified to see him stumble as he tries to regain his balance. "I don't need you pretending you give a shit to ease a guilty conscience of because you think checking up on me is something B would want you to do. Go back to California, Replacement. If I need help, I'll ask. And chances are, I won't be asking you."

Tim's fists clench, and he's tense like he's priming to argue, but after a beat, his shoulders droop and he huffs.

"Fine," he says in a neutral voice. "Just as long as you ask _someone_."

And then he's grappling off without another word, and it isn't as cathartic to see the back of him as Jason figured it would be.

_Like he has any right to sound concerned…_

He should feel better, now that he's gotten his message across, but he doesn't. The foul mood continues for the rest of his patrol, which he ends up cutting short because his head is just _not_ in it tonight.

He is deliberate in choosing his safe house in Coventry, figuring he's less likely to run into Red Robin on patrol there or in general. It's nowhere near his usual patrol route, or the apartment he owns on Park Row—and fuck him for making Jason want to avoid his own stomping grounds!

_It's just for one night. Until I calm down and can be trusted not to shoot the kid. _

But the nervous, frustrated ball of discomfort in his gut doesn't go away as he settles in for the night. He doesn't bother with a shower or cigarette, or—well, his normal way to wind down when feeling like this, because he doesn't trust himself not to let his mind wander to places it shouldn't while his hand is on his dick.

It's more difficult to meditate tonight, and he remains aggravated and angry as he drifts off to sleep.

It should be no surprise that that night, he dreams of Tim for the first time.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

_❤️️ = I love this story!_

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_🍵 = tea spilled_

_🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!_

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_😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER_

_😢 = you got me right in the feels_

_😫 = whyyyyyyy?!_

_Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates-or just to drop me a line :)_


	3. III

As a general rule, Tim avoids going to Batburger when in uniform; it feels as if he's endorsing a company that capitalizes on cape and rogue identities, and which he knows for a fact treats their employees like chattel.

But apparently mythological gods of love have insane metabolic needs.

He makes a mental note to ask Bart to send some of those special high-calorie protein bars he eats. There's no way Tim intends to spend valuable time playing delivery boy if Jason's in trouble.

He frowns at the thought, causing the girl at the takeout counter to step back nervously.

_Jason was his usual _charming_ self tonight. But it was a bit off._

The older vigilante, never the paragon of patience and gratitude, was on a hair-trigger tonight. Under normal circumstances, there's more verbal sparring between them before Jason things get physical. Even then, their altercations are usually because some villain is trying to pit them against each other.

_Or he really _was_ just pissed off I was following him._

But Tim can't help thinking that's not it. The whole thing has been nagging him since the night before, drowning out what would normally be frustration and hurt after his encounter with the Red Hood. There's no time to be hurt when there's a problem to solve.

Tim accepts his order, and after ensuring it's triple-bagged, tips the girl at the counter for her time before taking off. Swinging across the rooftops of Gotham carrying ten times more than he ever buys for himself is too awkward, so he ends up jumping on the roof of a passing bus and riding it toward the old theater district.

His eyes automatically flick to the passing buildings, wondering if his progression away from Jason's part of town is being watched from up top.

Or if he should be ducking an impending sniper shot.

Jason's words echo on repeat in his mind, needling deeper each time. It shouldn't sting as much as it does, but they were just getting to a good place in terms of trust.

_"If I need help, I'll ask. And chances are, I won't be asking you."_

"So much for that," Tim mutters to himself as he prepares to disembark from his ride.

Upon arriving back at the Nest, he skips changing out of his gear and heads straight for the subbasement. The containment unit there was build with Poison Ivy and Scarecrow related emergencies in mind, but it's come in handy since he acquired an Olympian roommate of sorts.

Normal protocol after a twenty-four-hour observation period would be to send Eros off to a prison for metahumans, but Tim is wary about giving up custody of him any time soon. The potential danger to Jason aside, he'll need to get his hands on a good deal of null technology and fortified transportation just to move the guy without setting off his powers.

That memory induces a shudder; it's been a day, and he's _still_ tasting pomegranate.

Tim doesn't wish that on anyone. And if that lack of control seizes Jason, forcing him to throw himself at Tim like a ravenous dog?

A visceral swirl of nausea settles in Tim's gut. Jason's always had strong ideas on consent, even before his death. It's one of the few things that didn't change following his resurrection. If Jason becomes the very thing he's been fighting his whole life, Tim worries he'll break for real this time, and in a manner very different than when he first broke The Rule.

Tim isn't going to let that happen, even if that means working with an entitled godling that's already become more trouble than he's worth.

_It was hard enough just getting him here, the guy's way heavier than he looks…_

He wonders if it's the wings, if their mass is still discernible even when they are out of the visual spectrum, and how strong they'd have to be to carry something person-sized. They probably aren't like a birds' appendages, and Eros is clearly not hollow-boned, so either they're extremely well-muscled or of some metaphysical material construct that—

"Hey! Are you going to feed me at some point, darlin'? Or is part of your brand of hospitality enforced starvation?"

Tim jolts back to present from his drifting thoughts and glances across the open space of the Nest toward the containment unit. It's a hundred square feet of bulletproof glass and filtered air designed by S.T.A.R Labs specifically to counteract the abilities of metas and other enhanced humans.

Eros lounges on his cot, wings out and examining the feathers with his lips pressed together. He's been annoyed with Tim since waking up in the in custody, though Tim thinks he's more upset about the whole being knocked-out thing. There's some kind of telenovela playing in the background.

He wasn't sure how long he was going to have his guest, so while Eros was still unconscious, Tim hooked up a television screen inside, and brought several books and a mp3 player. He also brought every piece of art from his apartment upstairs and crammed it inside the unit. Eros' abilities may not have affected Tim when he put him in there (this time), covered as he was, but as those powers grow beyond his control, he's going to want to siphon it off however he can.

Eros finally looks up at Tim, narrowing his eyes. "For your sake, I hope you got the fries Jokerized. And your channel selection sucks. What kid your age doesn't have at least one Adult channel?"

"The kind that finds them gross and exploitative." Tim makes a face as he pushes back his cowl, though he keeps his domino on.

_And who has two full-time jobs that make sitting down to watch anything like that pretty much impossible. _

He can't remember the last time he went on a date or did anything nearing the realms of sexual. Normally he just sees to his needs in the shower and that's that, since there's no time for much else. He's even gotten in the habit of not taking more than five minutes so he can do other things. What's the point of taking longer if there's no one there with him?

Eros is watching him with a cruel twist to his lips, and Tim's ears warm. He has a flash of worry that the Olympian can read minds but then decides if Eros had that ability, he'd be using it mock Tim by now. The guy's sort of a dick.

Tim scowls at the notion and opens the hatch in the side of the unit and shoves the takeout bag inside, punching in the code to decontaminate the area.

Eros gets up from the cot, stretching in a languid movement that's distracting for reasons other than his shirtless state, and stalks over to the hatch on the other side. As he moves, he brushes his fingers across a bronze Grecian krater from the Classical period. Something like golden wisps of smoke swirl around it and then settles into the piece, which gleams a bit brighter.

_He wasn't kidding about that, I guess. _

Eros clutches at the takeout bag and begins unloading it on the table by the door hatch, stuffing fries in his mouth and making borderline pornographic noises that have Tim swallowing uncomfortably.

"So where's Tall, Dark and Angry?" the Olympian asks. "I figured you'd be wrangling him back here—force him into a sweet set-up like this one."

He kicks at the glass.

"There's no wrangling when it comes to J—Red Hood."

"And you're not worried at all?"

Tim considers the last meeting and carefully says, "He seemed fine when I ran into him tonight."

But he can't quite hide his unease. Eros picks up on it.

"You get that that's only temporary, right?" he asks, stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth.

"I also know that going at Hood head-on isn't the way to convince him of anything. He's got to reach out for help himself. The most I can do is monitor him from a distance until he's ready."

He wanders over to his main computer and brings up the tracking program for the bug he planted on Jason when he grabbed him tonight. The other man was more distracted than he let on if he didn't notice Tim slip it on him.

_And he hasn't gotten rid of it, judging from this_.

It's not making a quick exit via sewer or a passing truck, which is par for the course when ditching a tracker. He's chased enough of those to know what that pattern looks like. And when Tim pulls up camera footage from the surrounding area, he catches several shots of Jason making his way to the safehouse in Coventry no one's supposed to know about.

"Really?" Eros drawls. "Are you sure it's not because you're perfectly happy with this state of affairs? Maybe you're hoping you'll finally get some recognition from the guy you've been pining for?"

Tim tenses and turns, forcing a blank look and neutral tone. "I'm not pining for him."

"Don't lie to me—God of Love, remember? I could smell it on you the minute you were both in the same room."

Tim clenches his fists, a pit forming in his stomach at the idea that someone _knows_, followed by disgust as he registers what Eros just said.

"No, I'm not happy about it," he growls. "Why would I be happy about him being forced to do something against his will? Especially if it's giving a crap about me?"

"Hey, no offense meant," Eros says, holding his hands up in surrender; the effect is ruined by the burgers clutched in each fist. "My mother and I have made a career off guys wanting the object of their affection to pay attention to them, at _whatever_ the cost. And there was no such thing as dick pics back then. It's kind of a question I've got to ask in my line of work."

"Your line of work? You mean you still fly around the world making people fall in love?"

"Uh, no, human beings fall in love fine on their own. I just…make it happen faster and last longer. To my mother, love is a whimsy, gossamer thing, all moonlit strolls, and flowery words and basking in the _newness_ of it all. For me, it's fierce. Intense. Something that when denied guts you like a knife and hollows you out with desperation."

A hungry expression passes over his face that has nothing to do with food, and Tim shivers, disliking how a lot of that sentence is hitting too close to home. Rather than betray his discomfort, he takes a chiding tone. "If that's what you do, no wonder people kill themselves after bad break-ups. Some people aren't able to deal with that sort of pain—do you even care?"

"Not particularly. Besides, it's only the interesting ones we get involved with. They tend to be stronger at heart."

"Because _that_ makes it so much better!"

"Do I tell you how to do your job? No. So how about I get a little less judgment and a little more 'start finding my diviners' from you?"

"Oh, we're going to find them," Tim says, fighting to control his anger. _Whether I'm letting you have them back is another story entirely. If I can figure out some way to keep you and your bow locked up, it'd save a lot of people grief. _"But just so you understand, Red Hood is my priority here, not you or your toys."

"Really?" Eros purrs, sneering skepticism on his face. "Even though I could ensure he starts to return those pesky feelings of yours? In a less life-threatening way, of course."

"He might not even be affected."

"Naivety's not a good look on you, darlin'. But seriously—all I have to do is use an arrow, and you two could retire from the cape gig and go antiquing in New England once this is all over."

Tim snorts at the ridiculous image and shakes his head. "No."

"_Really_? You're still willing to fight for him, even if he goes back to treating you like an afterthought if you help him?"

"_When_ I help him. And it's not like it would be something new."

_And, yeah, that still hurts. _

Eros huffs, his expression suggesting he's not sure what to think of that, and then shakes his head.

"Self-sacrificing as ever," he pronounces and pops the top on a can of Zesti.

Tim puzzles at that remark for all of five seconds, when the screen of his computer lights up with an incoming transmission from Titans Tower. Tim accepts it and the screen fills with a familiar face.

For the first time that night, his mouth smooths into a genuine smile. "Hey, Cassie."

"Red Robin," she replies, eyes flicking over him as if to assess him for injury or danger.

She keeps to his rules about secret identities in his base. Sometimes he wishes his identity was public like hers—and then he remembers that he gets enough unwanted attention as Tim Drake-Wayne, it would be worse if people knew for sure he was Red Robin.

_Vicki Vale would be the first in line to turn my life into some kind of reality TV show…_

"You tried to get a hold of me earlier?" his friend asks, and Tim nods. He's never been the type to leave anything to chance, and last night while Eros was still conked out, he shot an email to Cassie asking her to get back to him as soon as she could.

"How are things in California?"

"A hell of a lot warmer than where you are, but I don't think you want to talk about the weather."

"Nope. How much have you heard about Eros?"

"Eros?" she asks. "Like _Cupid_?"

"Really?" the winged Olympian groans. "You too? _You're_ supposed to know better."

Cassie's eyes narrow as she takes note of the figure in the containment unit behind him. "Who is that?"

"He _says_ his name's Eros, and from what I've seen, I'm inclined to believe him."

Eros gives Cassie a smarmy smile. "Hello, Auntie. Nice to meet you finally."

She wrinkles her nose, and Tim can't help mirroring the expression. "And I thought _my_ family was messed up."

"Your family is messed up," she retorts. "Mine's just been doing it longer."

"Touché."

"So, why's he in a cage?"

"The real question is why isn't he gagged," Tim replies, earning a smirk from Cassie and an offended _'hey!'_ from his detainee. "Basically, he's losing control of his powers and when that happens apparently there will be a nuclear explosion of desire."

And that's possible the weirdest sentence he's ever said.

"Super orgy," Eros agrees. "Which though fun in theory, is a lot messier than any of us want."

Cassie and Tim shudder.

"Not that Gotham couldn't use a collective chill pill," Cassie says, "but that sounds like an easy fix. You've got him locked up, send him on to Iron Heights or one of the other places that have meta containment."

"Hey! What'd I ever do to you?!"

"I would, but there's a complication," Tim sighs. "He was wounded in an altercation involving a bunch of mobsters, and some of his blood infected a human—no, _not_ me." He is quick to add that at her widening eyes. "But the individual in question isn't exactly known for being in control of their emotions. They have a history of trauma as well that could turn this into an issue, so I need to find a cure as soon as possible. Preferably before the symptoms Eros insists are coming manifest."

He purposefully downplays Jason's involvement, since the Titans aren't his biggest fans. Even the ones who weren't around at the time have heard the story of unconscious bodies, a message written in blood and Tim nearly dying. Heroes are supposed to be above grudges, but they are still teenagers.

"Not sure what I can do for you on that front…"

"Eros says his arrows will reverse it, but they're missing, along with his bow. I'm looking for that. But I have to find out how bad this could potentially get, and how long it will take."

"I could tell you that," Eros grumbles.

"I need independent corroboration because I don't believe he's being completely honest with me," Tim finishes, ignoring him.

"I know nothing beyond what I've heard in the stories, and those you have to take with a grain of salt," Cassie muses.

"Told you," Eros informs Tim.

"But I'll contact a few people in my family. They might know something concrete."

"Thanks," Tim says, relieved. "Other than that, everything's good with the Titans?"

"Just the usual stuff. Nothing end-of-the-world bad this week, but it's only Tuesday."

"Don't jinx it!"

"We live in a jinx," Cassie replies with a roll of her eyes. There's a crash somewhere in the distance, and the trumpeting of an elephant and she winces.

"Beast Boy?"

"I'll see you later, Red, I've got an idiot to kill," Cassie sighs.

"Isn't it fun being the leader?"

"Shut up."

The screen goes blank, and Tim can't help his grin.

"So..." The grin vanishes as he turns to face Eros, who has abandoned the ruins of his food and is now rolling an ancient-looking gold coin across his knuckles. "You know my aunt."

"First, stop calling her that, it's weird. Second, she's with the Titans. Of course I know her."

"_Titans_," the Olympian scoffs. "You call yourselves that, but you've never met an actual Titan. _They_ were formidable warriors. So fearsome they had to be thrown into the deepest pit of Hades to ensure they never rose up again to threaten the gods."

"Clearly they weren't all that if they got locked up," Tim retorts, offended on behalf of his team.

Miraculously, Eros has nothing to say to that.

⁂

Jason wakes to the sensation of lips between his shoulder blades and someone's fingers sliding down the curl of his spine. He grumbles in dozy annoyance, shoving his face deeper into his pillow. It took him way too long to fall asleep last night, his overactive imagination plying him with thoughts he does _not_ want to be having. Whoever's bothering him is about to—

He jerks upward then, fingers clenching around the pistol beside his bed and whirls around to aim at whatever intruder has slipped into his room.

Because he went to sleep _alone_ last night, and no one should know about this safehouse or how to bypass his security.

(Well, obviously there are the members of the Family, but Jason's fairly confident none of them would be waking him like _that_.)

He faces the emptiness of the room, breathing hard as he tries to gather his wits. The space is too sparsely furnished for someone to find a place to hide, the shadows already eaten away by the sunlight. There's no question he's utterly alone, gun pointed at nothing and his body heaving like he just went three rounds with Bane.

_What the hell…_

He lowers the gun, scowling, and rubs the back of his head with his free hand. He's used to having realistic dreams, but _that_'s new…

Jason scrubs a hand down his face, gives one last bleary glance at his surroundings, and heaves himself out of bed. There's no way he's falling back to sleep after this.

He's distracted the rest of the morning, paranoia higher than usual as he takes second and third glances around the room before getting in the shower. He _really_ shouldn't have skipped it last night, because his skin is sticky with dried blood.

The wound in his shoulder is completely gone now.

If he's learned anything in his life it's not to ignore when things magically appear or disappear.

And yet…

If he acknowledges it, it means acknowledging the fact that he's starting to fixate—hell, already _is_ fixating—on Tim, and that's something he can't give in to.

Repressing shit is a time-honored Bat tradition, and he decides for once he's going to partake for as long as possible. He's still able to function, which means there might still time for him to figure all of this out on his own.

He returns to the location of Eros' warehouse, hoping to find some trace evidence left from the night before. If he can get an analysis of the blood that infected him—

Except, the person he'd usually ask for that is the one he should be avoiding at all costs. The other options are ten times as unpalatable.

_Damn it._

It turns out there's nothing to be found anyhow, although Jason isn't sure it's because someone cleaned it up (the GCPD crime scene cleaners or the ever-diligent Red Robin) or because maybe Olympian blood doesn't stick around. His wound is healed like it was never there, it's possible it's the same with the blood.

The day gets steadily more discouraging.

The first time Jason hears the voices, he's in the middle of busting up a shipment of drugs he stumbled onto while leaving the warehouse district. The Triad flunkies seeing to said shipment aren't exactly happy to see him, which is why things quickly devolve into fisticuffs.

As one of the knife-wielding henchmen take a run at him, Jason crouches, ready to engage, when without warning, someone whispers in his ear.

** _"Ready to lose?"_ **

** _"Do your worst, infant."_ **

Somehow, he can _feel_ warm breath along his jaw, even though he's wearing his helmet.

Jason jerks to one side, prepared to pull whoever is behind him over his shoulder, only to find the air behind him empty. His pause allows his opponent to shove his knife at his ribs.

Body armor and his own deflection abilities keep the blow from being fatal, but the rest of the fight, Jason is thrown. There's no one else but him and the Triads, but the sensation of someone hovering behind him doesn't disappear.

_Tim?_

He's looking for him before he even registers it, stepping over the groaning bodies of his opponents and examining the shadows for any sign of Red Robin. It would be just like him to sit and watch from the shadows, the little stalker. Dick told him stories about what little Timmy was like as a kid, and it wouldn't surprise him if he still liked to sneak around with a camera.

That idea makes the blood rush to his cheeks for some reason.

Disappointment rises when he confirms he's completely alone—followed by the queasy realization of what he was just doing.

He doesn't even bother calling the GCPD to do a clean-up as he flees the scene.

As he stitches himself up later in his safe house, Jason eyes his reflection in the mirror, glaring at himself in reprimand. He should be stronger than this, damn it! If not because of his All-Caste training, then even thanks to Bruce's insane regimens for dealing with poisons.

His gaze flicks over his scarred body, assessing the damage. He's used to the litany of scars that cut across his skin, this latest is just part of a growing collection. The _other_ one, though—

He studies the healed part of his shoulder and swallows.

If he hadn't known there was something wrong with it before, healing as quickly as it did, he knows now. The raised skin of the new scar looks as if it's been glossed over with gold; fine threads of it follow the surrounding capillaries like loose threads.

_If this is some kind of King Midas deal, I'm going to kill that winged douche. _Though, turning into a golden statue is potentially a better outcome than what could happen if what _Eros_ said was true. _At least this time Bruce will have something better to stick in the case than an empty suit._

The grim humor usually makes him feel marginally better; today it doesn't.

After that, the voices are everywhere he goes, needling at him in a way that is somehow more present than the insanity of the Pit, more maddening. At least when he was driven by an insane rage, the voices egging him on made sense. There was a purpose, a logic behind their prompting.

** _"Always planning, aren't you?"_ **

** _"Well, someone has to." _ **

The whispers that dog him are more like snatches of a picture or a dream, without context, and yet each word murmured to him falls on him like a searing iron on his heart.

** _"Should e'er I go, will you go with me?"_ **

In the next few days, things get steadily worse.

Jason's all but given up on sleep, since every time he closes his eyes, Tim's face seems engraved on the backs of his eyelids. Only not Tim—sometimes he looks different, but the image is so fleeting Jason couldn't even explain how. And when it's not Tim's face or his voice, then his slumber gets interrupted by vibrant flashes of color and sound. There is warmth and laughter that abruptly turns to crushing, wrenching pain.

** _"You think of me as a shield?"_ **

** _"I think of you as _ ** **my_ shield."_**

** _"You'll have to catch me!"_ **

It's not an echo of the physical, the way nightmares about his death tend to be; the bone-shattering imprint of the metal bar against his bones. No, this pain is something else, a gaping hole, someone shouting into a dark void that no one will ever hear.

** _"I would that you would leave them all to perish."_ **

** _"Bury us together."_ **

During the day, he experiences a bitter longing, like he's missing a limb or a lung. By night, his patrols are more vicious, bloodier as he tries to exercise his frustration the best way he knows how. As if hitting harder, and faster, will bleed out whatever is slowly poisoning him.

By the middle of the week, Jason is smoking a pack a day and filled with the manic energy of the perpetually exhausted. He's started seeing things out of the corner of his eye—full lips tilted upward in amusement, flashes of blue eyes, dark hair disappearing into a crowd—that makes his stomach flip.

_"Come back to me."_

He picks his phone up and puts it down several times one morning, each time getting closer to calling Tim until he throws it at the wall. He leaves his apartment before he can do the same to his tablet.

There's no point carrying out his usual errands, and he ends up wandering aimlessly around the city for a few hours. Somehow he ends up on a building across the street from Wayne Enterprises, staring at the floor where he knows Tim's office is. Where he knows _Tim_ is.

_Even on a case, pretty boy has to be the model employee or no allowance from B._

It would be simple for Jason to get into the building if he wanted to. There's Bat access points all over the place, and secret corridors and doors. He wouldn't even need a disguise to keep anyone from recognizing Bruce Wayne's dead kid.

_Yeah, and then what, moron? What exactly is the game plan once you get in? _

He can't even answer himself and lets out a wordless yell of rage that gets lost in the whipping wind.

"Screw this," Jason growls and turns his back on the WE building. It galls him that it's difficult to do even that.

_Time to get some answers. _

Since there haven't been any reports of arrests of winged metas, he knows exactly where to look. Tim's as paranoid and as much of a control freak as Bruce, and he's not about to let a potential resource go before he's used it to its full potential.

_And there's no way babybird doesn't have a secret hideout under his place._

It's a short journey back to the old theater district, or at least it feels that way; Jason's more distracted than he'd like and barely registers the trip. Once there, he circles the block where Tim's apartment is located a few times, making sure that there's no sign of its owner (even though he _knows_ Tim's at work, there's a part of him that keeps _hoping)_ and then breaks in.

It's a bit of effort to disable the security system (the little shit is too paranoid and smart for his own good) and then even longer to start looking for a way into Tim's base of operations.

He may or may not get side-tracked snooping through the kitchen (no wonder he's so scrawny, he's got barely any food in here) and rummaging in the bathroom medical cabinet (at least he's well-stocked, it'll keep him from bleeding out the next time he gets injured) and picking through various DVDs (of course Tim has the extended versions of Lord of the Rings, why doesn't _that_ surprise him?). It's only when he peeks into Tim's bedroom, sees the king-sized bed and has a sudden image of the younger man sprawled out on it that Jason remembers the actual reason he's here and almost runs back downstairs.

It takes longer than he'd like to find the trick to opening the secret door, though when he finds it, he snorts.

_Because _fish_? Really?_

When would Tim even have the time or patience to remember to feed them, unless he was coming over to the aquarium every day? It's the only thing in the apartment that doesn't feel like _Tim._

Jason scowls, wondering when he started being so familiar with Tim's esthetic. They've barely hung out together since his grand and bloody return to Gotham, and they're both always traveling the world or wide void of space, there hasn't been the opportunity to get to know the kid. Yes, he once studied his replacement obsessively, but that was to find his weaknesses, to learn how to take him apart, to destroy him and in turn destroy Bruce.

None of that should translate to knowing minutiae like how Tim takes his coffee.

_When did I even pick that up? Could it have been that time with the waffles? _

His ruminations trail off as he takes in the vast, three-level cavern he's descended into.

And…okay, this place is way cooler than Jason's pseudo-Batcave, but he guesses that's par for the course when a tech nerd whose Daddy bankrolls everything.

Though he doubts Tim would have used Bruce's money to finance this. He likes his independence; Jason learned that for himself about the time he found the kid holed up in Lex Towers. It's one of the things he likes about him.

He finds Eros in a containment unit.

_Bingo_.

The guy has a decent set-up too, from the look of it; he might as well be in a swanky hotel room.

"Back so soon?" Eros calls, not looking up from his show right away. "I thought you had _work_ or whatever it is you humans force yourselves to endu—" He glances up and sees that it's not Tim, and his sentence trails off, expression becoming almost gleeful as if he's been waiting for him a while.

"_Kairόs dé, __poim__ḗ__n laôn,_" he purrs.

Jason blinks, not understanding the words even as they tug at something in him. It's like being spoken to in a dream or from beneath running water.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, that's not one of the languages I had drilled into me."

Eros's face morphs instantly.

"Well, you're no fun," he says, and though the words are accompanied by a childish pout, Jason thinks he senses actual disappointment there. Normally he might investigate that, but he's here for a reason, and that involves figuring out what the hell is going on with him.

"You know why I'm here."

"Indeed," Eros says. "Starting to get that unscratchable itch, aren't you?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think I warned you and you didn't believe me. Not sure what you expect me to do about it now." The Olympian examines his nails.

"Oh, I don't know-_fix_ it, maybe?!"

"I already told you how to fix it. You could have been helping the pretty boy the past few days and possibly gotten closer to sorting things, but then you had to be all brooding and tortured and stomp off like a teenager." Eros considers him. "Unrelated, but have you ever actually _seen_ a bird brood? I'm curious, if you took that bucket off, would there be actual similarities?"

Jason tells himself the reason he clenches his fists is because of the Olympian's flippant manner, and not because he called Tim 'pretty'.

Which, _no_, not relevant.

"You said I'd be going out of my mind over T—Red Robin," Jason growls. "That including hearing voices? Or seeing things that aren't there?"

"It might? To be honest, I have no idea," Eros says with a yawn. "I've never had anyone with your particular…_history_ exposed to my blood. There's any number of things it could be."

"My _history_," Jason repeats.

"Well, to start with the most glaringly obvious, you've returned from the dead. There's an odor Revenants like you give off…hm, sort of like dirt and petrichor. If they're brought back properly, I mean, otherwise it's all rotting flesh and bodily fluids." He shudders. "And there's the unmistakable seal of the All-Caste on you. Ducra's work, I'm guessing."

Jason's mouth twists. "And you can just…_tell_ all that."

"It's written in the story of your soul," Eros intones, and then looks smug, "among other things."

"Yeah, I've seen too much in my time to go for that poetic New Age crap."

"Oh, it's far from New Age, boy, it's from an olden time when men were men—"

"And sheep ran scared?" Jason interrupts. "Spare me the walk down memory lane and just answer my questions.

"You haven't really asked me anything yet."

"How long do I have before I completely lose it?"

"Again, no idea. Though no one's ever made it more than two weeks, and by that point, there's not really much left to save, if you know what I mean."

_Kind of figured that._

"And before it gets to that point? Is there a way of putting off the…urges?" he almost gags on the word.

"Depends."

"On?"

Eros smirks. "On how far the object of your obsession is willing to go to save you."

Rage frissons through Jason's body. "Fuck you. That's not happening."

"Then you'd better get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes, et cetera…"

"I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, do try," Eros sniggers. "Birdboy took great pains to tell me there's no way into this shiny prison cell unless you unlock the door from the outside. And if you walk in here now…well, you might end up seeing those troubling hallucinations and hearing those whispers a little more clearly following a second exposure."

Jason snarls with rage and punches the glass in front of Eros's face; it doesn't even make a dent, and his knuckles immediately burn with pain.

"Feel better now?" Eros simpers, and then his face goes cold. "I don't care if it's with or without your little crush, it's in everyone's best interest to get my _toys_ out of the world and back in my hands as soon as possible. You two have already withstood enough tragedy, don't you think?"

"That written on my soul, too?" Jason spits but doesn't wait for an answer. He whirls around and stalks away from the containment unit. This was a waste of time, and he needs to get out of here before Tim returns.

He's not sure what he'd do if he actually ran into the other vigilante just now.

But one thing's for sure: he's going to have to start taking this seriously.

Knowing Tim's already investigating the bow and arrow angle, Jason decides on a different take. There's something not entirely above board about Eros, and Jason has no illusions the guy wouldn't screw them over in a second. He's calculating, like Tim, except in the Olympian's case, the only one to benefit from that calculation is himself.

And there are some things he says that don't jive. Jason's not sure what exactly he's been picking up on—going over all of their interactions, there's nothing that stands out—but his gut is telling him there's more going on here than the Olympian is telling.

The problem is, who the hell is going to help him out with this?

He can't work with Tim, for obvious reasons, and contacting Bruce or Dick to use their Themysciran connections is right out. He doesn't have any of his own, not really—Donna doesn't really talk to him anymore. Even if he did have an in somewhere, he'd want to have at least enough background on the issue to understand whatever mindfuck logic usually comes along when dealing with Olympians or magic or anything like that.

He needs information, and he knows who he needs to reach out to to get it since Tim isn't an option. He's not looking forward to it.

_It's always a toss-up if she'll help or not._

Or make him beg or demand a favor in exchange.

Though at this point, the sooner he unravels the shitstorm that his life is devolving into, the better. Then he can hightail it out of Gotham and not come back until he and Tim have forgotten all about this little bit of awkwardness. Perhaps get back to the Ally-Possibly-Friend-Kinda-Brother-Sort Of? thing.

And so, before he can talk himself out of it, he taps into the private comm line to Oracle, the one he purposefully keeps muted whenever he's back in town.

"Red Hood," the familiar digital voice acknowledges a few seconds later.

"I need a favor."

"Will wonders never cease."

"I've been asking myself that for years."

"You've been pretty adamant about not wanting help from me," she remarks, and even with the lack of intonation he can hear the rebuke and rolls his eyes.

"Look, can we skip the guilt-trip? I'll owe you."

"I know you will."

"It's more your research skills than hacking."

"Oh?"

"I need to know as much as you can find about the Greek god Eros."

Oracle is quiet for a long moment, and he wonders if she hasn't logged off, but then she says, "Does this have anything to do with Red Robin asking me to watch for reports of individuals carrying a bow and arrows over the past few weeks?"

"It might," Jason allows, a smile in his voice at the mention of Tim. He forces that back down, mentally castigating himself.

_None of that!_

"Are you two working a case?"

"Sort of. Not together—" _Definitely not together! _"—but same case. We're approaching it from different angles."

"But you're reaching out to me, which you don't do unless things have the potential to take a turn for the worse."

"I'm reaching out to you so that they won't have to later on, and that's all I'm going to say. Can you help me or not?"

Another pause.

"It will take some time."

"We've got less than two weeks. Think you can manage that?"

"What did you boys get yourselves into this time?" Oracle sighs. Her cooperation is implied, and Jason relaxes a hair.

Things are going to be fine.

"Thanks," he says, and then pauses. "So, when you spoke to him—Red Robin, I mean. How did he sound?"

Or not.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	4. IV

_How does this even happen?_

It's tempting for Tim to let his head fall against the computer console in his frustration.

A week in, and nothing. No reports of random people wandering around with a bow and arrows, none of his underworld contacts have mentioned anything showing up at on the black-market or at illegal auctions. It's as if Eros' diviners have vanished into thin air.

That he's frustrated is putting it lightly.

Adding to that is the fact he hasn't seen or heard from Jason in the same amount of time. The other vigilante finally appears to have found the tracer Tim stuck on him and sent it on a trip to the Gotham City dump. It's both a relief, because it means he's acting like himself, and a disappointment, because it means he's still resistant to Tim's help.

Apparently when he asserted the Red Hood would eventually reach out to him, he underestimated the exact amount of stubborn that is Jason Todd. He'd come to _Eros_ about something, as Tim discovered when checking his now blank security feeds; the Olympian wouldn't say what, instead complaining about rude capes and the obstinacy of men.

Tim scowls at the dot pixel pattern of static where the footage of their meeting should be, trying to get his emotions under control. He's annoyed, because Eros _is_ annoying, but also because Jason managed to not only get into his apartment undetected, but down into the Nest.

Yes, he knows Jason is a lot smarter than he pretends to be, but it's a dart to his pride because he thought he was being clever.

He's also worried, since something upset Jason enough to come here in the first place. And he's hurt because he'd chosen to speak to the winged _appetite_ that compromised him to begin with instead of the one person trying to help him right now.

_He waited until I wasn't around to come here. And Eros won't say what they talked about._

Mostly to be contrary.

As for the reports coming in from the authorities cleaning up after the Red Hood in the past few days, his take-downs are edging toward the worse side of brutal once again.

_Something must be going on. If he's being affected, though, wouldn't he not have the interest to keep on with his usual activities? _

It's been an almost physical effort not to approach Jason once again, to plead with him to just accept help for once.

Versions of that plan have never worked for Bruce or Dick—or, well, any Bat, really—so Tim doubts it will work for him.

It's why he now forces his focus back onto Eros' case, as futile as it's been. He knows he's has more difficult cases, but this one feels like it's intentionally trying to frustrate him in a way even the Riddler's games never have.

_You'd think people carrying around a bow and arrows would be pretty easy to find, but apparently not. _

The Olympian is irritating, even as he answers Tim's questions. His story hasn't changed from when he first told it—a trip to Amsterdam that didn't go as planned, and then a desperate hunt throughout all the cities where Tim tracked thefts.

So far, everything lines up with the investigation Tim was running before and offers no new information.

"Are your diviners like you?" Tim asks, considering the giant map on his computer screen; a red line drags across the Atlantic Ocean, connecting locations on the bordering continents. "I mean, will they not turn up on CCTV or other security devices?"

It would explain why he hasn't found anything yet.

"Nah, that's just me," Eros tells him as he flips through a gossip rag. "I have to make the conscious decision to not show up on camera. It's a strain on my abilities." He sighs, putting down the magazine. "I used to be able to go completely invisible in the good old days. Back when people truly _believed_ in us."

"And now you just, what, mess with imaging frequencies?"

"Pfft—Glorified camouflage."

"Considering government reliance on facial recognition software, you're still able to ghost the system. That's something."

"Don't patronize," Eros grumbles. Then he tilts his head as something occurs to him. "Although, now that you mention it, they can change forms."

Tim stills. "…_What."_

"Yes, to make them less conspicuous. You don't think I wander around with a bow and arrows all the time, do you? Outside of a Renaissance fair that sort of thing catches the wrong kind of attention—"

_"_Why the_ hell _didn't you say this before_?"_ Tim hisses, fingers itching with conflicting impulses to tear at his hair or punch the Olympian in the face. Luckily for the well-being of all parties involved there's a thick sheet of bulletproof glass between them.

"Uh, one, you didn't ask. Two, I'm the only one who knows how to change their form, so I didn't think it was an issue," Eros replies, ticking options off his fingers.

Tim takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it. "If you want me to solve your case and get your property back, you have to tell me _all_ the information. Even if it seems insignificant."

"Well I know that _now_," Eros huffs; at Tim's continued unimpressed expression, he rolls his eyes stands up. "Fine! _Mea culpa_. What do you want to know?"

"What forms can your diviners take?"

"Since they were forged to be divine weapons, they have to conform to their purpose. So they can only be reshaped into other weapons."

"Any weapon? Knives? Brass knuckles? Mace?"

"In theory?" Eros answers, and then looks curious. "Actually, that's an interesting concept. I might try those out when I get them back."

_His attention span is possible worse than _Bart_'s. _

"Focus—what form were they in when you were in Amsterdam?" There's no footage of that, because apparently _that_ café valued customer privacy over possible security issues.

"Well, I'd just finished watching a James Bond marathon, so I was inspired. I made them into these sweet, gold-plated .45 calibre revolvers. Single shot, custom-design, monogrammed."

_And another breath…_

"Which you didn't think to mention."

"Oh, I'm sorry, was that _important?_"

"Yes, it was important! How am I supposed to help you find your diviners when you have me looking for a bow and arrows, and they've basically become the Golden Gun?!"

"_Guns_. Plural." Eros corrects reasonably. "And you're a detective. It's what you do. I already said I don't tell you how to do your job."

Tim's heard that love is blind; it turns out love is also an idiot.

With monumental effort, he lets it go; he'll revisit the shape-changing weapons on his own time. There's other information he needs. "Back to the theft, though—is there anyone you were with at the time, anyone who might have witnessed what happened?"

"I was with a lot of people that night. And it's not like those people are going to a pot café to pay attention, if you know what I mean?"

"Not really."

"Well, that's not surprising. You don't strike me as the fun one."

Tim rolls his eyes at the dig, "What about other Olympians?"

"What about them?"

"Could they have stolen it from you?"

"In theory, but I would have noticed. And then booked it in another direction."

"You don't get along with your family?"

"Do _you_?"

"It's…complicated."

"It always is."

"What about your wife?"

Eros tenses, expression going unnaturally blank. "What?"

"I started doing a bit of research on you," Tim explains, studying the sudden change in demeanour. "Just the basics. But the most popular story about you has to do with your wife, Psy—"

"Dead," Eros cuts him off, abrupt.

"But I thought she became an immortal goddess?"

"How many times do I have to explain that the stories don't get everything right?" Eros sneers. "She's dead. _Point final_."

The message in his voice and eyes is for Tim to drop it; even as his curiosity grows, filing the information into his mental dossier of the Olympian, Tim can recognize a painful topic.

He lets it go. For now.

"So, no one was around? The coffeeshop, I mean."

"I don't know," Eros groans, body language easing out of it's rigidity once more. He winds his fingers into his hair. "There was a pair of identical twins from Sweden that looked like walking Alps, and by the Styx did I want to climb _those_."

"Gross."

"And then there was the clingy redhead, the hot waiter with the manbun, one total MILF relieving her glory days—I don't know, okay? There were a lot of people!"

Tim leans back in his chair, carding his fingers together. "What exactly is a god of love doing getting stoned in Amsterdam, anyhow?"

"Hey, I don't judge your life choices."

"I'm not judging, I'm just—curious. You're not human, you can go wherever you want, do whatever you want, without being tracked—can probably influence people to get whatever you want. And you decide to gorge yourself on pot brownies in a glorified basement?"

"You might not understand this, but sometimes it's nice to go somewhere and forget for a little while," Eros drawls.

_Actually, I get that more than you imagine…_

"That's unexpected," Tim offers. "Considering who you are, you'd think you'd be happier."

"When has _love_ ever been synonymous with _happy_?" Eros challenges. "You know that better than most, right?"

"I'm fine. I'm living with it."

"Not talking about _your_ walking Alp, darlin'. I mean the loss you've gone through." The Olympian is studying him now. "I can see the scars left over from every person you let into your heart and who left you. The boy you loved, your parents, your best friends, your father figure…and it's not just death I'm sensing. You've had things taken from you, things you loved more than anything, just _wrenched_ away."

** _"My entire _ ** **life_ has burnt down! Again! I don't call this 'okay', Dick."_**

_"**You have to understand—"**_

** _"Oh, are you still here?"_ **

** _"What Earth are we on that you choose _ ** **him_ over _me_?"_**

Even after all this time, it hurts.

He is uncomfortable at the reminder of blacker times, some fresher in his mind than others. He still has moments when his mind is trapped back in the days after losing Robin, after his father's death, when he gets stuck in those memories and can barely get out of bed. It's like sleep paralysis, except he's awake, and it usually takes Dick dropping by his place unannounced or Alfred phoning him to remind him not to miss upcoming family dinners, to get him out of it again.

To remind him it's in the past and can't hurt him anymore.

But now, this latest thing with Jason has more than just the potential to hurt, it's practically a certainty. In fact, Tim wonders if Jason being cursed to _desire_ him isn't just the universe continuing its general theme of dumping on him.

"I don't need a replay, I was there," Tim says stiffly, and decides he needs a break from Eros for a little while. In about three hours he has to get up and go to work, something he'd rather skip, but the old guard on the Board of Directors is getting up to their usual bullshit and he can't skip the meetings today.

The rest of the week continues in the same trying fashion. When he isn't working the case, going through hours of footage from various airports, train stations and other checkpoints for a sign of someone carrying _any_ weapons this time, he's at WE fighting a bunch of old, fiscal conservatives trying to undercut employee wages. Neither initiative seems to be going anywhere.

On the sixth night since the warehouse fight, Tim is running on very little fuel, to the point his judgement is starting to waver. He's weighing the pros and cons of checking in on Jason again. He thinks he could probably manage it without him noticing this time. But then, Eros is taking one of his rare (and much appreciated) food-coma naps, which means some valuable quiet time for him to _think_.

The main computer chooses that point to blink to life with a message from the Tower, and Tim's stomach leaps with hope that Cassie has something for him.

Except it's not her that grins down at him.

"Superboy? Where's Cassie?"

His best friend makes a face. "Ouch, not even a 'hello'?"

"Sorry, just a bit stressed," Tim groans. Apparently his exhaustion has brought him past the point of basic etiquette. He needs another Red Bull. "Hi."

"You sound so enthusiastic," Connor deadpans. "Anyway, Cassie's gone to see her Mom in Gateway City. She said she'd be back soon."

Tim nods. That makes sense, considering Dr. Sandsmark's knowledge of Ancient Greek artifacts and mythology; he feels stupid for not thinking to contact her before.

"Hey Rob!" Bart shoves his face into the frame. "When are you coming back?"

"Might be a little while. I got side-tracked with a case here that's, uh, time sensitive."

"Sucks."

"While you're here, can I get some of those bars of yours?"

He thinks Batburger is about to offer him and endorsement deal.

"Are you pulling another case where you're too lazy to get up and eat? Dude, we talked about that."

"Also, those bars are gross."

"Of course they're gross to _you_, you're used to homemade Kansas awesomeness that fills you up if you just _look_ at it."

"They're not for me," Tim interrupts. "It's for a…actually—" There's no other way to see it. "He's my prisoner."

His friends look impressed.

"Damn, Rob, are you going Dark Side on us?"

"Ooh, do they have cookies?"

"Ha, _hah_. And even if I was, everyone else has already done it, I'm due. But no, the guy's a glorified witness, with the metabolism like a Speedster."

"So, hell on the grocery bills," Connor says with a nod.

Tim's comm buzzes, the line from his cellphone; against the backdrop of his mask, Cassie's number pops up.

"Gimme a sec, incoming call," he says, and patches into the line. "Hey—"

"Everything he said is true," Cassie interrupts before he can finish the sentence. "Eros, I mean. People infected by his blood only get worse unless treated—think the Henry VIII, the Manson family, or John Hinckley Jr before they were cured."

Tim recognizes all of those names. "Wait, but they all lived afterward."

"They were the ones who got cured. Other's haven't been so lucky. Medea killed her own _children_ and set her ex's new girlfriend on fire."

The blood rushes from his face. "What?"

"I mean, all those people had severe issues before they got infected, which might be a factor, but if your victim already has trouble controlling their emotions…"

Cassie trails off.

It's like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. "How long?"

"Two weeks, give or take. It depends on the mind frame of the victim."

A very real, visceral fury spreads throughout Tim's body, anger on Jason's behalf and at the spoiled godling that's watching all this unfold like it's one of his TV dramas.

_"…_Thanks, Cassie," he manages to croak. "Call you later."

He hangs up.

"Are you okay?" Connor asks; on screen, his body becomes more tense in response to Tim's expression.

"I have to go," Tim replies, tipping his cowl over his head.

"Need help?" Bart asks. "You know we can be there in less than three hours if you do. Two if we're really booking."

Tim considers, then shakes his head. "I—we should be able to handle this." Bruce is never happy when metas show up without his permission, even when they're saving the collective asses of the Family. "But I'll keep you posted. If there _is_ anything, I'll contact you right away."

"Good luck," Connor says, still concerned.

"Thanks," Tim replies, ending the call.

_I think I'm definitely going to need it._

⁂

_The sun beats down on him from its zenith, and he can feel his arms burning. The air is hot and humid, carrying with it the taste of the sea he usually associates with the Mediterranean, yet he's still sweating in his linen tunic. _

_In his hands—browner than he's used to, scarred but in a different way than he expects—he carries a wreath of laurel leaves, woven together with fine gold thread. In front of him, a giant mound rises out of the earth, grass and wildflowers covering it, rippling lazily in the wind. At its base, a thick column of aged marble, already falling into disrepair. _

_He should see about having that fixed before they head for Sardis. _

_Jason takes a few steps forward, kneeling to place the wreath at the base of the column; despite the heat, a chill moves up his spine as he presses his hand to the earth, clutching a handful of dry soil and bringing it to his lips. _

_"It is my privilege to stand at the hall of your rest, Honored Forefather," he murmurs. "And know that I will do your blood proud." _

_The words are less flowery than anything the priests and governors might come up with, but the sentiment remains just as genuine. _

_Glancing to his right, he sees a similar column several yards away, and another man is kneeling there with his own wreath. It takes him a moment before he recognises him._

_Tim._

_Except—he's different: his hair is longer, skin darker than Jason can ever remember seeing, because Tim is supposed to be a pasty-faced nerd. He's also wearing a red tunic and lace up sandals, and his features are much more relaxed than Jason is used to. No dark circles beneath his closed eyes. He mouths words that are lost in the breeze. _

_Jason's own gaze falls there for a moment, taking in the flushed colour of his lips. Something at the back of his mind chides him for looking, but it's lost within a burgeoning warmth in his chest. _

_He's lucky to have him here, someone as faithful and intelligent and honest—_

_Eyes blinking open, Tim notices him watching; his mouth tilts upward in amusement, and Jason's heart seems to beat faster. The smaller man straightens up, leaving his offering behind him and wanders over, movements as smooth as a cat. And—_

_No, this isn't a good idea, he's supposed to be avoiding him, right? He can't remember why, but—_

_"What are you thinking of?" Tim asks softly. "You're supposed to be making sacrifices to your ancestor's memory, not staring at your liegeman." He adopts a severe expression. "It's distracting me from being appropriately solemn." _

_Jason shrugs, fond smile on his own face. _

_"He was happy, when he lived," he says, nodding at the column where he knelt before. "And fortunate in finding a faithful companion, and a great poet to sing of his deeds after his death."_

_"You say that as if you have neither," Tim snorts._

_"There are no more poets of merit to speak of my deeds. Everything is lost to the logical, pedantic record of history." _

_"And there's the sense of drama I was waiting for," Tim deadpans. "You could always write the histories yourself."_

_"Hah! You would say something like that. Always planning, aren't you?"_

_"Well, someone has to." _

_Jason rolls his eyes, and gestures with his hand that Tim should follow him. They amble down a grassy footpath, returning to the level ground where their horses wait for them. There are guards spread out around them, close enough to help if something should happen but far enough away, they can't hear what's said. _

_He approaches the massive black Thessalian, absently patting the ox-head brand on its haunch with one hand while his other reaches to detach a large cloth-wrapped package from his saddlebags. _

_Tim appears curious when Jason hands it to him. _

_"I made sacrifice at the temple this morning before we rode out and left them with one of my finest sets of armour," he explains. "They insisted it was too much and that I should take something in return. This called to me."_

_Tim opens the bundle, eyebrows raising at the bronze shield that gleams in the sun._

_"It was found in the ruins of the great city herself after the battle. It made me think of you." _

_"Oh?" Tim watches him from beneath hooded eyes, a delicate colour blooming across the bridge of his nose. "You think of me as a shield?"_

_"I think of you as _my_ shield," he corrects seriously. "I will always be a sword. I can't be anything else, or others would see it as weakness. But you…you protect everything that I am, even from myself. You throw your own needs and wants to the dirt to raise up mine. You weather the anger of men who believe themselves to be greater. For my sake."_

_Tim appears struck mute at this, clutching the shield to his body as he stares at Jason with shining eyes. His mouth parts several times, as if he's trying to figure out what to say, and once again Jason's gaze falls upon his lips. _

_Tim shoots a darting glance at the guards near them, and something like frustration passes across his features, mixing with calculation. _

_And then he's grinning that sharp grin again, and Jason's stomach flips pleasantly as it fixes on him. Tim sets the shield to one side with careful reverence and takes a step forward until their faces are within inches of one another. _

_Jason licks his lips, expectation weighing heavily on him, and waits for Tim to break the silence. _

_"I think we should run a race."_

_Which...was not the response he was expecting. Jason blinks at the non sequitur. "What?"_

_"In the old style," the younger man continues, setting the shield on the ground and backing away. He's reaching for the belt of his tunic, eyes sparking with mischief and something else. "To honour our ancestors, of course."_

_"Of course," Jason agrees, and reaches for him, but Tim dances out of his way._

_"Ah, no! You're entirely to dressed for that."_

_He's jogging backwards now, and Jason laughs, reaching again for him, "Get back here—"_

_"You'll have to catch me—" _

"Hood!"

Jason gives a full-body jerk, dragged out of his reverie by a voice that is no longer laughing, but tense.

"_Red Hood!"_

The world returns to him, gritty and smelling like rancid trash and smoke. There are several bodies at his feet and the smell of blood in the air; he hears groaning, so he knows they're alive. That should be a relief, somehow, except he's distracted.

There's someone standing in front of him, the height and build familiar, it could be _him_, except the eyes are wrong and he's younger and—

_Not him. Nothing like him._

For a beat Jason is irritated when he realises the person in front of him is not Tim, because he was sure he just heard him. On the heel of that annoyance is the realisation that he's looming over a kid that can't be more than a few years older than Damian, who's staring at him with unbridled terror, pressing himself into the walls of the alley.

_New kid on the corner. Johns were harassing him, so I taught them a lesson, but then…_

Jason's hand lingers in front of his face, inches away, fingers curved like they intend to brush the boy's jawline.

Realisation hits at what he must look like, what the teenager must think, and it's soon followed by disgust because he knows the motivation behind his current position. He pulls back, staring down at his hands in horror.

_What the hell did I almost do?_

"Hood, look at me," Tim says, only it's the Red Robin voice, growled from the shadows, and it sends a shiver up Jason's spine.

He immediately turns to face him.

The nameless teen take off at a run, but that's not important; what's important is that Tim is here, barely three feet away. He moves to close the distance, posture open and soothing, and Jason is already relaxing in response, twitching to reach toward Tim's outstretched hand.

And…_no_.

He should not be relaxing. He should not be reaching out or touching Tim in any way because—

Because…

It's hard to think why, but then he remembers.

Because it's not _him_ who wants to, it's the infection. And he might do something worse.

Jason's entire body seizes up again, and he stumbles backward.

"Hood, it's okay," Tim says in a placating whisper. "I'm going to help you. I promise."

And Jason wants to, he really does. Wants to just go with him, maybe let himself fall against his body in exhaustion, because Tim might be small but he's strong and could hold him up and—

"Back off!" Jason snaps, both to himself and to Tim, who jerks as if he's been slapped. The sight helps ground him a bit more. "You are the _last_ person I should be around right now."

"Ja—"

"No!"

He takes off. Doesn't bother with shooting a line into the air—his hands are shaking too much for that—and just runs. He knows this place better than the other vigilante ever will, knows how to disappear even when being pursued by a Bat.

And right now, he _needs _to disappear.

Grotty buildings and dark alleys fly by him as he crashes through the backways.

This is better, just one foot in front of the other. The icy air in his lungs is painful, but the good kind—distracting. Waking him from whatever funk he was in.

_What the hell was that before? A dream?_

But he was awake. And since when are dreams, or even hallucinations, so cohesive? Sequential? He knows it happened like he was living it, though he can't remember _exactly_ anymore. The details are drifting away like sand grasped too tightly in a fist, but he remembers feelings. Warmth. Safety. Laughter.

And Tim smiling at him; everything else is hazy, but he remembers that detail without difficulty.

Jason's stomach lurches, torn between something fond and possessive, and the sense of disgust crouching at the back of his mind and spreading through his body the more he thinks about it.

He has to stay away—from Tim, from anyone who looks like him. Just until he can figure out a fix (or hell, even afterward, just to be sure). No, wait, he can't figure it out. It would involve investigation, chasing down leads, probably running into—

No. Better barricade himself in somewhere. Take himself out of the equation.

Tim will be fine to figure this out on his own—he said he was trying to help, which means he's aware of what's going on with Jason. Which, yes, is mortifying, but also a comfort, because he trusts the younger man to figure it out.

He wonders for a moment if that's because of the growing fascination, and then decides it's not. Even before, he's had an inexplicable amount of faith in Tim's abilities to plan and get results.

It's why he wanted him to be his Robin.

Why he _still_ wants—

"Damn it!" Jason growls, stopping for a moment to breathe and then to punch the nearest wall in frustration.

The comm in his ear buzzes to life.

"Red Hood?"

Not Tim, but Oracle.

"Tell me you found something," he orders, trying to get his mounting panic under control.

"Not yet. I've got a lead that looks promising, but still waiting on confirmation," Oracle replies. There's a pause, and then when she speaks again, it's without the voice synthesizer. "Tim told me what's going on."

Shame hits him. "Of course he did."

"We want to help you, Jason. This isn't something you have to go through on your own."

"Tell me that the next time _you_ get shot up with Olympian blood that makes you fixate on Huntress or Clayface or someone. I just need somewhere to ride this out—"

"I can think of somewhere that would be well-equipped."

The Cave.

"No."

"Now isn't the time for your pride. If you really don't want to hurt someone—to hurt _Tim. Again_. Your best bet is to get B's help."

The kicker is, Jason knows she's right. And he's off his game enough that all of his usual arguments and complaints and resentments just don't seem to register. All that he can focus on right now is Tim—and wanting to do everything he can to stop obsessing over him.

To stop _wanting_ him, wanting to touch and taste and—

"Damn it," his says again, but this time it's whispered, almost defeated.

Bruce is the only one Jason knows that will do anything in his power to stop him from becoming exactly the kind of monster he's been fighting his whole life. Even if it means throwing him in Arkham until whatever is driving him insane gets fixed.

And even if it doesn't…

_He'll lock me up and throw away the key to keep me from hurting Tim. And I'd _let_ him._

"He's enroute to you now," Barbara says.

"Is the demon brat with him?"

"Yes."

He remembers the terrified expression on the nameless teenager's face as he reached out to him.

"Keep him away. I don't…know what I might do."

Barbara's silence is heavy, and Jason feels a wave of disgust with himself rush over him.

"I've told B to send Robin to rendezvous with Red Robin," she says, and it's Oracle's voice again. "He'll be there in five minutes. Try not to bolt."

It's the longest five minutes of his life.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	5. V

**Author's Note: **Someone mentioned in the comments about the ages of the characters. As I mentioned at the beginning of the fic, this story mostly follows the New Earth canon. I disregarded anything in the New 52 that directly contradicts that. So the ages of the characters are about as follows:

Bruce: 45

Dick: 26

Cass: 21/22ish

Jason: 21

Tim: 18

Damian: 12

Ages have been approximated based on clues from the comics.

* * *

Tim's first instinct is to go after Jason, which is why his irritation is entirely justified when a caped shadow detaches from above and lands in front of him in a crouch, blocking his path.

"Father says to check to condition of Hood's victims, then wait for medical units," Robin informs him.

Tim frowns. "Good for him. You don't need two people to do that."

He begins to head off again, only for Damian to bar his way again. "Obviously. But he was adamant about it."

"And since when do you listen to everything he says?"

Damian's mouth thins, nose wrinkling as it does when Tim does something irritating to him, like exist. It takes him a moment to catch up.

"Wait—he meant _me_?"

"He meant both of us, for whatever reason is beyond my comprehension." His permanent scowl slides more to the side of a pout, suggesting he isn't pleased with the directive. "He was determined to reach Todd on his own when he requested help."

The kid sounds like he is confused and disapproving all at the same time, which Tim can kind of agree on.

Reaching out to Bruce for help is _not_ something he saw coming. Though, maybe he should have, since Jason always did have a unique ability to act outside the parameters of his own established patterns. It's why it was so hard to pin him down when he first returned to Gotham.

_It's practical, too, I guess._

Jason's the sort of no-frill logic kind of guy. He knows out of everyone in the family, the person best suited to take him down if he needs taking down is Bruce—and much as he cares about him, Bruce will do it, too.

_He really must be rattled to go with that option._

Tim's heart thuds a little in sympathy at that, understanding exactly what Jason's afraid of.

Before he died, he acted rash and could be violent, and was already justifying why certain kinds of people should be forfeit their lives. That conviction magnified when he came back to life. Killing another person, that might not have been something outside the realm of possibility—in a purely utilitarian way. But this—the idea that he might lose control of himself to an extent where he has anything in common with the creeps he's killed?

Tim wants nothing more than to go after Jason himself, to assure him that he's nothing like those criminals. But he also recognizes why it's not a good idea right now.

_Besides, B has him. Just have to hope their…_usual_ issues don't get in the way. _

"I'm going to find the kid that was here," Tim tells Damian. "Got to make sure he's okay, maybe explain what happened."

"Whatever," Damian replies, toeing at the faintly stirring bodies.

_Nice working with you, too…_

Tim finds the teenager three blocks away, ducked into a corner to avoid the wind, sucking down a cigarette from shaking hands. When Tim rappels down in front of him, he gives a curse and jumps backward, nearly upsetting a trashcan.

"What the hell, man?" he demands.

"Sorry," Tim replies. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't go anywhere."

"Why, so you can have a go at me to?"

"I need to know what happened back there."

"Twenty bucks."

If this were a gangster or some rogue's henchman, Tim would probably just beat the answers out of him. But he recognizes that this is a scared kid, who needs to feel safe right now, and who needs to feel like he's in control. Given the background Tim suspects, it's not something he gets very often, and will determine how helpful he could be in the future.

So, he counters, "Thirty, and you also give me your name."

The kid snorts, but nods; as soon as he pockets the cash, he says, "Paul. McGann."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor," Tim deadpans, and the kid smirks, but he lets it go. It gives him something to call him, helps ground himself in the fact this case is now involving actual people.

"Okay, Paul. Tell me what went down."

"Usual thing. Some guy wanted to, uh, show me somethin' in the alley. Turned out he had a bunch of buddies waitin'. Pretty sure I'd've gotten worked over if it weren't for the guy in the helmet showing up." Paul hesitates here, his eyes flickering with vulnerability in a way that tells Tim he hasn't been on the street very long. "After he wiped the floor with 'em, he went weird. Got real quiet, and he started lookin' at me like…" He shrugs. "Like, I couldn't see his face, but it felt like the way some of the junkies look when they think you're easy pickings. And…"

The kid actually shivers here.

"Man, I thought he was supposed to be cool?" he snaps. "That's what the girls all say. But if he's a creep too, why d'you Bats let him go around like he does?"

"He was exposed to a mind-altering substance some time ago, and it's messing with him," Tim replies. "He's not entirely himself right now, but I'm sure he'll be fine after a bit of detox."

"Yeah, whatever." Paul continues to look distrustful. "We done here?"

"Yeah, we're done." Tim digs into his belt and passes him a card for the Neon Knights foundation. "Take this, too. It's not just for younger kids, you know. There's a program set up for teens and young adults that have aged out of the system."

"So?"

"I'm not saying you have to go there or even asking you to trust them. But for tonight, at least, a bed and a hot meal are probably a safer bet than working a corner."

Paul's shoulder slump a little in defeat, and he looks away. "Whatever."

"Second person that's said that to me tonight. I might develop a complex being brushed off so easy."

The teen's mouth twitches.

_Good sign. If you can still smile so easily, it's not to late for you._

There's buzz in his ear and Tim's comm crackles to life. "B is bringing Red Hood back to the Cave."

"Without a fight?" Tim asks, pressing the speaker to his ear.

"Hood asked him to sedate him."

_Shit_.

If that's not an indicator of how dire he thinks the situation is! Something like this only happens in life or death situations involving the whole Family, or the Joker. Or both.

"I'm on my way." He turns back to Paul. "You going to be alright?"

"I'm always alright."

That startles a chuckle out of Tim; he makes a mental note to track the kid down at as soon as he's got a better idea of what's going on

Hurrying back to Damian, Tim finds him watching with folded arms as an ambulance loads the last of the injured and unconscious men through their doors.

"Father, the clean up is finished. I am returning."

Batman's voice echoes in both their comms. "No. Continue with your patrol. Red Robin, he'll stay with you for now."

"Excuse me?!"

"What?!"

"Rendezvous at the Nest afterward and stay there until you receive further instruction."

He signs off.

Damian and Tim exchange looks that are easily interpreted even behind their dominos.

"He knows that's not happening, right?" Tim says. "You'd probably set my place on fire."

"And I'm sure it would be an improvement. But no, it's not happening."

"Good. Glad we established that. How are you getting back to the mano? B brought Hood back in the car, so…"

"Obviously, with your bike."

"Oh, _obviously._"

"You would take issue if I stole a car. And you intend to return to the Cave anyhow." Tim glares but doesn't correct him. "I'm driving."

"Fine."

"Tt, you people and your antiquated—wait." Damian sounds like his brain has to reboot. "Really?"

"You have an obsession with sharp objects, you've tried to kill me more times than Hood has, and you hate me. You really think I'm letting you sit behind me?"

Damian snorts. "That's the first intelligent thing I've ever heard you say."

"That is, of course, assuming you can reach the gears."

He's kind of surprised he doesn't get punched for that one.

It's an awkward right back, made even more so when Tim insists they duck into a treelined cove on the way to the manor and hide the bike to change into their civvies.

"You're ridiculous."

"B's probably keeping Jason in a holding cell," Tim explains, "which is on the same level as the garage. We'll be seen."

"So?"

"So, you want to get sent off to bed like a naughty kid before you even step foot in the door, or do you want to go down the stairs and find out what's going on before B can stop you?"

Damian thinks it over, and nods. "This is tedious, but very well. We'll do it your way."

Tim exhales a bit at that. Though none of that was entirely a lie, he's more concerned that if Jason's woken up, he might see Tim coming in through the parking area and get upset.

"Look at us getting along," he murmurs as he struggles out of his boots.

"This truce is temporary at best. If you continue to patronize me, I will have Titus defecate in your shoes."

They arrive in the manor, slipping in through the family entrance, where they are greeted by Alfred.

_How does he do that? _

It's a question Tim is pretty sure will never be properly answered.

"Master Timothy, Master Damian—what a novelty, you two entering the house together."

"We didn't enter together, Pennyworth, he followed in my wake. As usual."

Alfred and Tim watch him head toward the main study.

"He's in a good mood tonight," Tim remarks.

"Indeed. He spent the afternoon following his studies playing Cheese Viking with Master Colin."

"Oh, well, the world will be forever grateful."

"I am considering a gift basket."

"Can we get some coffee downstairs, Alfred? I have a feeling tonight's going to be a long night."

_Actually, I have a feeling it's going to be a long _week_…_

"Of course, Master Timothy."

"Thanks."

When they get down to the Cave, it's both a relief and _not_ to see that Bruce isn't waiting. Mostly because it's Dick sitting in the big chair at the meeting table.

_Crap. Crap crap crap, what is he doing here? _

"Richard," Damian says, a frown in his voice. "I was under the impression you were on your way back to New York."

"O caught me on the way, said there was a Family emergency and I might need to hang around for a bit. Here I was hoping she meant something else by that, but…"

Tim's brain stumbles to come up with a reason why Dick shouldn't be here. Either this will become the stuff of teasing material for years to come, or Dick will be disgusted at the possibility of Jason entertaining any kind of feelings for Tim.

He has no idea which option is worse.

"B's handling it," Tim says. "Maybe you should do a quick patrol, though, since we're all back here right now."

"It's covered. O said Batgirl and Signal are covering any gaps in our routes tonight."

_And Cass is in Hong Kong, which is at least a bit of good news._

He has a hard enough time hiding his feelings for Jason on a good day; if she were here while all of this is going on, there's not a prayer he gets out of it without someone knowing.

"So, who's going to fill me in on what's actually going on?"

"I will." By now they're all conditioned to ignore Bruce's sudden appearances. He's still in the suit, but the cowl's off, granting Tim a good view of the glare he's levelling at his younger sons. "You two aren't supposed to be here."

"Sorry. I didn't care," Tim replies, his discomfort starting to crack his usual composed mask.

"And I am your partner," Damian adds. "I will not be kept out of matters because of some misguided attempt to pander to my age. I had thought we came to an understanding on this, Father."

"This isn't about that."

"Then what is it about?" Dick demands; he's getting impatient.

"Jason's been infected by a toxin that manifests itself by triggering obsessive behaviour."

Dick processes that, then furrows his brow. "Are we talking Sheldon Cooper obsession or Alex Forrest obsession?"

"At this point it could be either," Tim answers, and gives a quick rundown of everything Cassie told him.

"And who exactly is the poor fool Todd's supposed to be fixated on?" Damian asks, looking repelled at the very thought.

Tim battles down his own embarrassment, reasoning that everyone needs to be on the same page if they're going to help Jason, and gestures wearily at himself. "That would be me."

Silence rings.

Damian tilts his head to one side. "Are we positive we shouldn't just allow this to play itself out?"

"Damian!" Dick snaps, scandalized.

"Well, the outcome benefits everyone. Todd gets to drag the object of his interests somewhere that's elsewhere, and we get rid of Drake."

"It's getting _really_ old, Gremlin," Tim sighs, rubbing his temples.

"No one's getting rid of Tim! And Jason's not…doing that!" Dick snaps. "We're going to fix this. Don't worry, Tim, he's not going to get a chance to do anything to you this time."

Tim shoots him a sharp look. "You know it's not his fault, right? It's like being dosed by Ivy, only stronger."

"If what Wonder Girl told you is true, though, the infection may capitalize on feelings that are already there," Bruce says. "And the fact is—"

"Jason's tried to kill me before? Yeah. I was there. But it's been years, and things have been getting better." Everyone looks skeptical at that, and he scowls. "They _were_."

"Be that as it may, you shouldn't be here. Damian either."

"Todd's not obsessing over _me_, thank god for small miracles."

Bruce ignores the byplay.

"Since you are here," he says, turning to Tim. "I want Eros transported to the Cave. We can better interrogate him here and find out if he's holding anything back. I don't trust that he isn't manipulating you both."

"Oh, I know he's manipulating us," Tim replies. "I also know you won't be able to interrogate him the way you want to, not with his powers slowly growing more out of control—and yes, they are doing that, don't make me explain how I know that."

"How do you—?"

"Nair, Dick. In your shampoo," Tim snaps, jabbing a finger in his brother's direction without looking away from Bruce. "Also, there's no guarantee he won't try to escape and give us the sleep because we underestimate him. And since I can't be around Jason, I can at least keep working on that angle of the case back in the Nest."

_Because no way in hell are you benching me from this completely. _

He can work from his place, and if there's anything important, he can send it over. And he cam patch into the comms to follow along with the investigation from afar.

Whatever Bruce wants to say to that is interrupted by a tweeting noise from the computer. A beat later, a holographic projection of Wonder Woman appears in the front of them.

"You got my message."

"Yes," she replies. "You caught me just in time. I must return to Themyscira for a time."

Bruce's eyebrows furrow. "Is there trouble?"

"Nothing I will not be able to handle," Diana assures him. "But I will also not be reachable for several days. Your timing is fortuitous as always."

"So your take on our problem?"

"I can only corroborate what you already know. Nothing mortal can be done about the boy's condition. Only an arrow from Eros' bow, wielded by the god himself, will be able to temper the infection."

Bruce's expression doesn't change, but Tim can sense his disappointment.

"I must also warn you that the further his condition progresses, the less conventional sedatives will work. I am surprised they even worked this time."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Modern pharmaceuticals might be able to render him unconscious, but it will not stop his brain function. The fixation will continue, thoughts unrestrained, and could overstimulate his brain to a fatal degree."

They are all silent, digesting this.

"You said 'nothing mortal'," Bruce says after a moment. "There's another option, isn't there."

Diana sighs. "Yes. I will have access to a method of pausing a gradual descent into madness, or rather I can locate it once I arrive on Themyscira."

"Great!" Dick says. "Let's do that."

"What's the catch?" Tim wants to know.

"The only means I know of stopping the progression of such an infection is by using Stygian Sleep."

"No," Bruce says immediately.

"What's Stygian Sleep?" Dick asks.

"It's in the myth," Tim says, his research brain kicking in. "In the story of Cupid and Psyche—or, Eros and Psyche, I guess—Eros wife was put into a cursed sleep. But I thought that was just a poetic way of saying 'really deep sleep'."

"No. It's a philtre created using the waters of the River Styx. Extremely powerful," Diana explains.

"What happened to Psyche?" Dick asks.

"From what I read, she got woken up by her husband," Tim tells him.

"Well, that's good, right?"

"In the story," Diana agrees. "In actuality, he was unable to wake her. Her body wasted away and her soul was trapped in one of the darkest parts of Hades, bound to the Styx itself."

_And…that's less good. Explains why Eros didn't want to talk about it. _

"None of this matters, because it isn't an option," Bruce declares.

"Don't be closed-minded about this, Bruce, it isn't a magic potion in the sense you think it is. The Sleep functions as a means of preserving his brain function without allowing the same deterioration that would be caused by mortal medicine. As I understand it, it will freeze him in the moment, keeping him safe and preserved while you seek out the means of his recovery."

"Have you seen it in action before?"

"No. I have only heard stories. But I trust the sources. And if you don't act quickly, his condition will worsen, and by the time you employ the Sleep, it will be far from peaceful for him."

"And if we don't find that cure, he'll be effectively braindead. No. We will find another way."

Diana makes an impatient noise. "While I know you have every right to be confident in your abilities, you're talking about a life. Your _son's_ life. Hubris is not a condition that was lost to the ancients." The translucent body of her hologram turns as if to leave the room. "I will procure some of the philtre while on the island. In case you change your minds," Diana says, not sounding pleased. "I would hope you choose to think of the boy and not your own feelings on the matter."

And she leaves them alone to stare at each other, the choice hanging over them more tangibly than the bats.

⁂

_Jason is in the middle of a fight._

_That isn't surprising, really; nor is the fact his opponent is Tim. That happens a lot. _

_What doesn't happen is Tim fighting him while shirtless. That's definitely new. And is it just him, or is he smaller somehow? He looks like he's about fourteen, which considering he usually looks like he has a severe case of underage, is an accomplishment. _

_Jason is smaller, too, at least in terms of bulk; he hasn't been so lean since he was seventeen. _

_A leg snaps out to the side of his head, and Jason reflexively catches it, pushing it away and backing up a few feet. Tim regains his balance, panting. _

_Jason smirks at him. "Are you going to keep dancing, or do you actually plan on hitting me?" _

_Tim's brows draw together, and he pulls back, throwing all of his weight behind his fist to deliver a blow that splits Jason's lip and almost has him seeing stars. A bizarre mixture of triumph and uncertainty flash across the younger boy's features._

_Can't have that._

_Jason spits out a mouthful of blood and grins. "You're about as threatening as a baby bird."_

_Goading Tim like this always yields results, and he isn't disappointed when the shorter boy runs at him, building up a momentum that allows him to barrel into Jason full force. It knocks the wind out of him as he tries to wrestle him off balance; Jason is only caught off-guard for about a moment, not nearly enough to make a difference, and immediately hammers at the other boy with his fists and the hilt of his practice blade. The way Tim is positioned, though, it's at the awkward angle where he can't actually land a decisive blow._

_Sneaky little fucker._

_It takes some maneuvering before he manages to rotate out of Tim's hold, then twist the smaller boy around in his grip. He has one hand clasping the back of his head, fingers buried in sweat-soaked hair, and his inner elbow nestled just beneath his throat. If he applies enough pressure, he can render him unconscious._

_Tim struggles, legs kicking off the ground as he fumbles at Jason's arm; a beat later, he sags forward._

_Jason lightens his hold the slightest bit, not actually wanting to suffocate him, but then Tim is moving again, snapping his body upward, using the momentum to flip himself over Jason's head and sending him to the ground. _

_As Jason recovers, Tim whirls around, tries to punch him in the face, but Jason rolls to one side, neatly avoiding it, and grabs the incoming fist in his own. He drives his other fist into Tim's solar plexus, the force of it sending the smaller boy flying several yards away, landing face down in the dirt. _

_Instantly, his stomach clenches in worry—he didn't mean to hit him that hard—and he takes a step forward, intending to check on him. _

_But Tim is moving, shoulders shaking as he pushes himself up off the ground, grey-faced and coughing up blood. He looks resigned, defeated, and Jason finds himself lowering his sword._

_"Stop."_

_Both boys freeze and glance off to one side. A burly man with oily blond hair and mutton chops is watching them, thick arms crossed in disappointment. It's another moment before Jason notices he's not an ordinary man—his muscular torso fades into the equally muscular legs of a horse, smooth skin becoming a gleaming chestnut coat. _

_He's a centaur. _

_"Menoitiades," the man chides, frowning at Tim, "you are not giving your best effort. This does both your comrade and you a disservice." _

_Tim hangs his head, and Jason is quick to defend him. "I thought he was doing pretty well for once. He lasted longer than anyone else ever has." _

_The centaur either doesn't hear him or chooses not to._

_"You both have different gifts, and you must use them. If you are able to defeat a stronger opponent by the grace of your mind, do so. If you lose, Peleides will have beaten you at your best, instead of being lulled into thinking he's better than he is."_

_"Unless I actually am that good," Jason points out. _

_"That right there is going to get you killed one day," Tim snarks at him._

_"My being a better fighter?"_

_"Your being an egotistical son of a—"_

_"Have a care, boy, unless you intend to bring down the wrath of the gods on yourself," the centaur interrupts. "Now pick up your blades. I want to see you fight properly this time."_

_The two teens face one another again, circling warily, and Tim grins. "Ready to lose?"_

_"Do your worst, infant." _

_And the fight starts again._

_Tim is fast—faster this time than he's ever been. Possibly because he's not wasting his time trying to meet the strength of Jason's blows; instead, he is throwing his all into his speed._

_He charges, underhanded cut to Jason's belly, which he dodges, and when Tim comes for him again, he ducks under the overhead swing that follows. Sweeping to the left, Jason makes a move for Tim's back, but the other boy avoids the blow, slanting his sword over his shoulder to protect his back._

_"I showed you that," Jason points out. _

_"Are you angling for a 'thank you'?"_

_"Well, it would be polite."_

_Tim spins around, slices toward Jason's neck, but he catches the wooden blade inches from his shoulder. _

_"Thank you."_

_"Sneaky little—"_

_And now, the competition is on in earnest, because Tim is getting cocky. And as much as Jason likes him cocky, he also has his pride to protect._

_He darts forward, feints to one side, waits for Tim's weight to lean into that direction, then cuts at his open side; Tim staggers at the last second to avoid it, but ends up sacrificing sure footing, ending up on the ground. _

_Jason twirls his sword around, preparing for the deciding blow. Tim's eyes dart to the sword, then to his leg, and he scrambles to his knees, crouched over low in a position Jason recognizes as an ankle sweep. _

_This time it's Jason whose footing wavers, waiting for the incoming crack of a broken bone—_

_And at the last second, Tim falters, pulls back, drops his sword. _

_Automatically, Jason scrambles into the opening and thrusts his weapon forward, pressing it to the other boy's throat. _

_"Stop!"_

_Again, the centaur is approaching them, looking more disappointed than before. He's almost glaring at Tim. "Why did you hesitate?"_

_"It isn't fair," Tim answers, and nods his head at Jason's heel. "I know he's weak there. No one else would think to aim for that spot, there's no point in me using it to my advantage for the sake of a practice bout. In a real battle, I wouldn't have foreknowledge of an enemy's weakness."_

_"That is not the point of the exercise," the centaur sighs. "It is for you to use every tool you have to win. And the prince must prepare for the eventuality that someone, someday, will discover that weakness." He looks into the distance, eyes glazing over at something only he can see. "A great blooding is coming that will cut down many a would-be-hero. Think on this."_

_Jason and Tim exchange scowls at the implication _they_ would be the ones to die. _

_"It is about time to adjourn," the centaur says then, shifting his gaze to the setting sun. "Go bathe and change your garments, and we will eat." He begins to trot away, and then pauses and shoots them a chastising look. "And I do mean _bathe_." _

_Tim blushes red to the roots of his hair, and Jason feels his own cheeks warm. _

_"You walk in on us _one_ time and you think that's all we think about," he complains hotly. _

_"You are both still growing into manhood, of course that is all you think about," the centaur snorts and departs, disappearing into the thick greenery surrounding them. _

_Tim gives Jason an arch look. "He's not wrong, you know."_

_"Speak for yourself. I have more on my mind than what's between your legs."_

_"I know. You have a fixation with my mouth, as well."_

_Jason sputtered, and reached for him, intending to put him in a headlock and show him exactly _who_ had a fixation, but Tim was already taking off at a run. Jason is, once again, running just to catch up with him._

_He always feels so out of reach—_

Jason blink himself awake.

His surroundings coalesce slowly, an unnatural brightness and scent of filtered air, and beyond that familiar craggy dark stone.

For a moment he's disoriented, still caught between the haze of dream and the first stirrings of wakefulness. The more aware he becomes, the more his brain falls back upon automatic reactions.

He's in a holding cell in the Cave.

Anger and hurt start to kindle in the usual way, that Bruce has locked him up here, that he went to him for help and—

_Wait_.

He remembers, and then relaxes. He wanted this. He had to protect—

"Tim," he murmurs, and it should trouble him right now that there's so much relief to speak his name.

Jason sits up slowly, shifting on the uncomfortable cot, and considers his surroundings. Nothing here but the basics—foam pallet on the floor, toilet that folds into the wall, a pitcher of water on a miniscule table. Not even bed sheets, though he knows that's for practical reasons.

It's not at all like what Tim set up for Eros, a glorified bachelor pad.

Jason frowns, unsure why that bothers him. Probably because Eros is a dick and Jason doesn't want him near Tim longer than he has to be; he's still got a sour feeling in his gut remembering the way he'd just _let_ Tim practically plaster them together.

The Olympian was far too amused by it all; has been more amused about all of this from the beginning. Jason knows he's hiding something, and he has a growing suspicion it's got something to do with how he's being affected by Eros' blood.

The dreams he's been having—he always forgets the details upon waking, but he knows there's something important about them. If he could just hang onto _something_ of them when he wakes up—

He hears footsteps approaching. Someone coming down the stairs.

"Tim?" he asks, already turning and craning his neck, hope blossoming in his stomach.

"Yeah, no, it's me," Dick's voice echoes, followed by his body easing out of the shadows. He's in uniform but without the mask, so Jason can decipher without problem the look on his face, like he's facing a rabid wolf.

"What the hell are you doing here," he growls, disappointed and embarrassed. Dick's supposed to be in New York. Not here, in the Cave, witness to Jason's shame.

"Here to help," is the careful reply.

"Like you helped when you stuck me in Arkham?" Jason challenges, reminding the older man of the last time they were separated by panes of bulletproof glass.

"That was different," Dick says, contrite. "We didn't want you hurting someone. This time it's you that doesn't want to hurt someone."

"None of which makes it okay."

Dick shrugs his shoulders, possibly in agreement, and changes the subject. ""Tim headed back to his place. Everyone…figured that would be best."

"Right. Yeah." Jason nods, because he agrees, even as disappointment suffuses him. He hasn't seen Tim for a week—no, that's not right, he saw him briefly earlier tonight. Earlier this morning? It doesn't matter; he didn't really _see_ him, he saw him dressed in the Red Robin gear, so it doesn't count. "Is he okay?"

He notices Dick is still watching him, evaluating his reactions and silence.

"It seems like it. He's worried about you, though."

"Really? What did he say?"

_God, can I sound anymore like an eager puppy? _

"He said none of this is your fault."

"Yeah? That what you think?"

"I think I trust Tim."

_Of course you do. Better not ask if you trust me. Hell, I don't even trust me right now._

"And I can see how weird this must be for you," Dick continues. "I can't imagine going through this. I mean, getting dosed on something from Ivy, it's different, it's all…physical, and there are protocols to deal with it. This is…it's like you _like_ Tim. Somehow, that seems more awkward."

"That's because he's your brother."

"He's yours, too."

"He's really, really not."

Dark frowns. "That's the infection talking."

And it would be so easy to just agree and end the conversation there. Except, he feels like he has to make this clear, if only to Dick. Because Dick's all about family and bonds and being the protective influence.

"No, it's a fact. We didn't grow up together. I was legally dead when B adopted him. We're not blood related. We didn't even meet until I tried to kill him." Dick opens his mouth and Jason cuts him off. "More importantly, I never wanted him to be my brother."

A statement which, in any other instance, would not hold as much weight as the other reasons, but among a clan that is all about choosing one's family, stands out.

"You didn't want _me_ to be your brother," Dick reminds him.

_And yet, here we are_ remains unspoken.

Instead, Jason replies, "Yeah, well, you were an asshole. Still are."

Dick snorts, his gaze upon Jason becoming considering, as if he's trying to process the information he's just been given.

"Still weird," he says after a moment. "He is a guy."

"Also not really the issue here," Jason replies with a frown, for a moment feeling as if he has to justify his interest in Tim. When he realizes what he just said, though, he freezes.

_Shit._

Dick is staring. "Wait. _What_?"

_Goddamn it. How much of that was me putting my foot in my mouth, and how much of it was the infection trying to, I don't know, stake a claim?_

"Since when?" Dick wants to know, voice going comically high pitched in a way Jason would mock him for if he wasn't so busy being furious with himself.

"Since none of your damn business," he snaps.

"Little Wing, did you just _come out_? To _me_?"

"Fuck no!" Jason throws himself back on his cot and turns his back on Dick; if he had a pillow, he'd use it to block him and the Cave and this whole situation out. Then he turns around and shoves an accusing finger in the older man's direction. "And to come out, I'd have to have been hiding it. Which I wasn't. Because _it's none of your damn business_."

He feels like his face is on fire.

It was a discover he made during his travels on- and off-planet with the Outlaws, and which he's sort of surprised didn't happen a lot sooner, considering Kori's views on sex and Roy's general 'anything goes' nature. Falling into bed with them both was a lot easier than expected, and on bad night, sometimes the only thing getting him through the hard days.

Dick is shaking his head, thoughtful. "Huh. Well. The more you know."

"In your case, it's the less you know," Jason grumbles.

"How did you figure it out? I mean, when you were here, there was only ever that one girl—what's her name, Rena? But I figured it was just because you were shy that you didn't have more girlfriends, not—"

"Well, a guy can do a lot worse than being officially recognized on Tamaran as one of the royal concubines of _Princess _Koriand'r," Jason interrupts, not wanting to confirm to Dick that he _was_ shy, and that most girls weren't interested in a kid from the streets even if his adopted father _was_ Bruce Wayne. "Roy complained a bit about it at first, but that was mostly because he doesn't like to share. But after a couple rounds, everything was fine. Kori's still the big spoon, by the way."

"Oh, god, shut up," Dick chokes, having gone paler with every word. He looks all at once like he's been punched in the gut and wants to throw up. "That's…more than I ever wanted to know."

"Good. If you don't leave this alone, I'll give you a blow-by-blow account," Jason promises fiercely. After a moment of thought, he adds, "And if you tell Tim _any_ of this, I'll get _Roy_ to come down here to add his commentary."

Dick shudders. "You grew up mean. They have a class in blackmail with the League of Assassins then?"

"Yeah, it's supposed to replace the 'how to be an asshole' as taught by Slade Wilson."

"Now, Master Jason, _really_."

They both jump, having not noticed Alfred approaching, carrying with him a tray of tea and various snacks. All Jason's favourites, he notices.

"Sorry, Alf," he says automatically.

"Master Richard, you are needed upstairs," the old man informs him as he opens the hatch in the wall to place the tray of victuals inside. "And perhaps afterward, if you're feeling particularly wild, you may even be tempted to get some sleep."

"Right." Dick pauses to assess Jason again, almost like he's expecting him to freak out at any minute, and then smiles comfortingly. "Try to keep calm in there, okay, Jan?"

"Fuck you, Marcia."

"_Language_!"

Dick's laughter follows him as he heads upstairs.

_Asshole. _

Jason is grateful for one thing, though. Talking with Dick, it got his mind of Tim; distracted him from the itch in his fingers and the desire to see and touch. It gives him an idea.

He might be locked up in here, but he has no intention of going insane left alone with his own thoughts.

"Hey, Alfred, can you do me a favour?"

"I can endeavour to do my best."

"Would you mind grabbing some things from the library? Anything on Greek mythology, or ancient history or curses and magic. I can't help with what's going on, but I need to keep busy. And there's a lot of stuff in books that B won't find with his fancy computer."

"Very good, Master Jason. I will bring down whatever materials I can find."

"Thanks."

He watches the old butler return up the stairs, and Jason exhales a breath he didn't realize he's been holding. Glancing down at his hands, he notices they've begun to shake now.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	6. VI

Tim leaves the Cave and collects his bike and gear, preoccupied with conflicting thoughts.

On the one hand, he wants Jason spared as much discomfort as possible, but on the other, the possibility of him never waking up again makes his heart clench. Temporary or not, it's still killing Jason, and there's a reason why everyone is so reluctant to do that.

The fallout from his death the first time still haunts them all today. Still influences the Mission.

_And either way, whether we use Diana's cure or not, it all comes back to finding Eros' arrows, right?_

And speaking of Eros…

Tim returns to the Nest and the sight of the Olympian sprawled against his cot, completely naked and his own hand busily moving up and down his very erect dick.

"Oh my god what the hell," Tim chokes, whirling around to avoid the sight.

"Fuck," is the reply he gets, breathless and more irritated than anything else. "You…had to walk in now? Come back in…like…ten minutes."

"I'm not leaving my own—" The distracting sound of heavy panting and the wet slide of skin on skin interrupt him. "I'm standing right here, stop it!"

"Not really much incentive," Eros sniggers.

Tim scrambles over to his computer console, trying to block out the sounds, and punches in the code to activate the fire safety system. There's a sputtering sound as the sprinkler in the ceiling sets off, followed by a shriek of surprise.

"What the hell, man?" Eros yelps, trying to scuttle away from the cold spray.

"Pants," Tim bites out. "Now."

"Okay, okay, geeze!"

There's the rustle of jeans being dragged on, along with a great deal of cursing in more languages than Tim can recognize. Deeming it to be safe, Tim turns off the sprinkler and turns to face his unwanted houseguest, who's glaring at him as if he wants to set him on fire.

"I can't believe you did that. What happened to respecting guy-time?"

"There is no guy-time while you're here," Tim growls. "It's enough I have to deal with your attitude, I'm not listening to sex noises. Or watching you get off."

"Not something you're into?" Eros questions. "I bet if I was 6'2" and with muscles like Thor, you'd be singing a different tune, darlin'."

_Don't bet on it. _

Eros' personality aside, Tim's never really had a taste for men. He considers himself open in terms of preferences, but until Jason, there's never been any guy he's ever thought about that way.

He clenches his fists.

_Jason._

"Why didn't you say anything about Stygian Sleep?" he demands, desperate to reroute this conversation pronto.

Eros snorts and digs absently through his pockets, turning up that gold coin of his. "Of course someone brought that shit up. I'll _tell_ you why—because it's a cure that's as bad as the disease. Worse maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean its price is steep," he says, tossing the coin up and down in affected boredom. "I didn't think you'd be willing to pay it. I was saving time."

"What did we say about not sharing all the information?" Tim snaps, and then pauses as something occurs to him. "Wait. Is that price the reason you couldn't help your wife?"

It's been confusing him since Eros is supposedly a god; you'd think he'd be able to figure out a way to save the life of someone he supposedly loved.

"The Styx is older and more powerful than we are," Eros replies, his entire demeanor shifting as if to put distance between himself and the topic. He shoves the coin back in his pocket. "It has rules that make it pretty much impossible for a soul that's been bound to it to leave. Only a soul that's already returned from Hades can make that sacrifice…and it must be of equal value. Soul for soul, you see? God for god, mortal for mortal."

Tim frowns.

"Put it this way—bodies are like this Zesti container," the Olympian says, grabbing one of the many empty cans lining his table. "There's only room for a certain amount of soul. No more."

"And when Psyche was cursed, she was mortal," Tim realizes; a beat later, "And you were a god."

"Exactly."

For the first time since they met, Tim feels a flicker of sympathy for the Olympian. It doesn't make up for his generally irritating personality, but no one wants to lose someone they love. It's especially hard when you know how to save them but are physically unable to do it.

Something else occurs to him.

"If we used the Stygian Sleep on Jason, there wouldn't be anyone who could bring him back," Tim realizes.

There's no shortage of colleagues they know who have been dead, but no one with enough of a connection to Jason to willingly consign themselves to the death for him. And in the Family, the only one that's actually been dead and come back (Dick doesn't count, his heart only stopped for a few minutes) is Damian. And there's no way Bruce, or anyone else, would let him make that sacrifice, even if he were so inclined.

"See?" Eros says. "I was sparing you the pain of a bad option."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Somehow I doubt it was as altruistic as that."

Which means they're back to square one, with the only way to save Jason being finding Eros' diviners.

There's a hollow pain in Tim's stomach. Jason's in trouble because of him. If he hadn't thrown himself in front of Tim to save him from the gunfire, he wouldn't have gotten tagged with Eros' blood.

On the heels of that is the feeling of disgust.

His harmless daydreams of Jason ever liking him in _that_ way have been twisted in mutated into this.

So, Tim dutifully throws himself back into the investigation.

Video-chatting with everyone back at the Cave, they work together on cross-referencing areas where Eros' robberies took place and the locations where he last sensed his bow.

For two days, it's just endless sifting through data and ignoring Eros' increasingly obnoxious behavior and trying not to think about Jason.

Then, at last, there's a break in the case.

"All these places you robbed," Tim begins, frowning at his digital murder-board. "They all correspond with instances of murder-suicides. The victims are always a couple that never showed any sign of domestic issues." He had noticed them earlier in his investigation, but thought they were unrelated. "Wasn't there something in the stories…your arrows, they can make people fall in love, but that's not all they do."

Eros blinks and then his eyes narrow. "The golden tipped ones make people fall in love. The lead-tipped ones make people hate each other with a bitter passion."

"I'm going to run a search on the victims, see if there are any connections."

"I can tell you right now there aren't," a mechanical voice interrupts, freezing Tim's screen.

"Oracle," Tim greets, not even surprised that she's been listening in.

"_Oracle_?" Eros repeats. "What is it with you people and muddying the legacies of the great ones? Have you ever even _been_ to Delphi?"

"The only link between the murder victims is they were all newly married," the flat, digital voice continues, ignoring Eros. "If you widen the net to track murder-suicides during the past month, most of them occur in or around areas where Eros was looking for his bow and arrow. The interesting thing is, though, they all happened _before_ Eros committed his robberies."

"What?" Tim asks, confused.

"That's probably what I was sensing," Eros says, perking up. "If someone's using the bow and arrow to incite hatred between lovers, that's what I was drawn to. But if there were more than one death happening in the area, it's no wonder I couldn't get a strong trail. It's like the scent was overlapping too much."

"Which means whoever took your diviners not only knew what they were taking, but also from who. And how to throw you off their trail."

Eros' face is stormy.

"Still no clue who this could be?" Tim asks, and receives no answer in return. "Great. Very helpful. Do you even _want_ to solve this case?"

Oracle interrupts whatever quip the Olympian has prepared. "Red Robin, you might want to return to the Cave."

"What? Why?"

There's a sinking sensation in his gut.

"Red Hood isn't doing well. And Nightwing might be on the verge of convincing Batman that Wonder Woman's solution is the only option."

"What? No! I sent them the report of exactly _why_ that's a bad idea!" Tim snaps, already hurrying toward the garage.

"I know that," Oracles replies, her voice switching from the screen to his comm. "But if you could see what Hood looks like right now…it might be a kinder end."

"And what's Hood's opinion on this?"

"He's…not exactly lucid at the moment."

And now he feels like throwing up. He was sure they had more time! "I'll be there in ten."

"I'm blocking any incoming and outgoing transmissions from Wonder Woman, but at some point, they're going to clue in to that fact. Drive fast."

The ride is a blur to Tim, whose thoughts race without registering anything beyond a desperate disbelief.

_Think! There's got to be something we can do, something we missed._

As he weaves in and out of the traffic on the bridge to Bristol, he goes over every interaction he's had with or about Eros and his abilities. Anything that was said, no matter how seemingly insignificant or unrelated.

One idea needles at him, a shadow of an inkling…

He doesn't bother with the roundabout route this time, tearing into the Cave's parking area and barely parking the bike before he's hurrying toward the containment unit. Bruce isn't there, which is a good sign—he must still be trying to get a hold of Diana; if he were ready to carry out any action for Jason, he would be here with him.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't!" Tim orders, striding forward.

"Tim," Dick says, getting up from the chair he's been occupying beside the unit. "You shouldn't be here."

He ignores him, eyes drawn immediately to Jason. The older man is sitting curled in a ball at one end of the glass cage, surrounded by books and papers that look like they've been thrown in a fit of rage. He presses the heels of his hands against his temples, and Tim can see the bags under his eyes from here. And the angry red welt around his wrists and neck, like he's been scratching into his skin.

Tim's heart lurches.

"I didn't know he was doing this bad," he whispers.

Dick sighs. "He hasn't slept in two days, and we can't sedate him after what Diana said. It's like he's going through withdrawal—fever sweats, hallucinations, throwing up. Which isn't great because he hasn't been eating, either."

_And on top of that, he's probably feeling trapped in that claustrophobic cell. _

"He's deteriorating right in front of us."

"I know. We're trying to contact Diana, but—"

"No. Not that. That is _not_ an option."

"Tim—"

"It would kill him, Dick! There's no waking him up from it!"

"This is killing him, too! Wouldn't you rather he didn't suffer anymore?"

Tim's fists curl into balls and he glances back at Jason.

He knows he;s is fighting. Bruce's training and whatever he learned from the League is probably keeping him tethered—even if it's only _loosely_ tethered now—but that's only a stopgap. Jason looks like he's on the brink of bashing his head against the glass until he knocks himself unconscious.

The mental image makes Tim recoil.

_Jason's in pain and it's my fault._

He needs to help him, needs to do something, even if it means tamping down his own inconvenient feelings and letting Jason do…whatever he needs to.

Tim will do it; if it means giving Jason more time, he'll do it.

Even if the idea of it makes him nauseous because right now Jason isn't in his right mind and when they fix him, he's going to hate Tim. But then…he's hated him before, so at least Tim will know what to expect. And maybe if he's careful about it…

Something Eros said about the nature of desire comes back to him then, and he considers it alongside what he knows about Jason.

He can't take it anymore.

Tim strides to the door of the containment unit, ready to input the code. Dick blocks his way.

"You can't!"

"I have an idea."

"Then tell me what it is, and I'll do it."

"You can't do anything right now," Tim replies with a sad smile. "Just trust me, okay?"

Dick is still conflicted, but after a beat, he steps out of the way.

Tim opens the door to the containment area and slips inside, letting it close behind him. Slowly, he approaches Jason, almost the same way he might a wounded animal, moving slowly so as not to spook him.

Jason is shaking his head, backing away from him, and murmuring something to himself. Something foreign sounding, like a grounding chant; swear beads on his forehead.

His eyes are clenched shut, as if he's trying not to see—either Tim or whatever hallucination has been plaguing him.

"Jason," Tim says quietly. No response. "Jason, look at me." Clear blue eyes snap open, locking with Tim's. "I need you to focus on me, okay? And, uh, don't punch me."

He can see the difficulty Jason is having with comprehending right now, but he's lucid enough to flinch away when Tim reaches for him.

"Tim!" Bruce barks somewhere in the distance, having finally made his appearance.

He ignores him and seeks out Jason's hand, wrapping his hand around it. Or trying to; the other man's hand feels huge compared to his.

He gives a fully body shudder at the contact, and then he's clasping back at Tim as if he's his lifeline. Something is at war in his eyes, that bit of sanity that tells him Jason's still there.

"_Philtatos_," he whispers, and Tim shivers at the way the strange word rings like a verbal caress.

Tim's thumb automatically swipes across Jason's wrist, and skin to skin like this he can feel the frantic beat of his pulse. Too fast for someone that's been sitting still.

"You're going to be okay," Tim tells him. "Remember your training. Just breathe…and focus. Hold as tight as you need to."

Jason's breath shudders in a way that suggests he trying to comply.

Tim isn't sure how long they stay like that, him crouched in front of Jason just holding his hand and murmuring calming words. But at some point, Jason begins to look visibly better. His pulse is returning to normal, the cold sweat on his face is beginning to cool and his breathing evens out.

"What…" Jason begins, eyes unfocused in their exhaustion. "Tim…?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"…shouldn't be. I might…"

"You won't," Tim insists, confident. "It's like what Eros said when we met him, remember? Desire is not just about…physical attraction. That's not what you're fixating on right now, is it?"

Jason shakes his head, slow, though his eyes don't leave Tim's face.

_And I know what skin hunger looks like_, Tim doesn't add.

Before becoming a Wayne, before Dick and Alfred and Bruce and Steph—no on ever touched Tim in kindness or just casually because they wanted to. He was so touch-starved that for the longest time he flinched whenever Dick tried to hug him, even as he craved it more than anything.

He had been so worried about it seeming creepy to want to be held or hugged by his former mentor that it was, he'd let himself believe he wasn't worth it. It's a thought that occasionally comes back to him even now. And Jason…

Well, he wasn't just starving for food when he was living with an abusive father and a drug addicted mother.

"Fuck, babybird, I'm so tired," Jason murmurs, and there's something in his voice like he's asking permission. Tim feels a grating burn at the back of his throat and a swoop in his stomach.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

And utterly uncharacteristic of him, Jason listens. He lets Tim lead him back to his cot and sit him down, their hands still clasped, and almost the moment he closes his eyes, he's passed out.

There's a lingering heavy silence.

Tim takes one last moment to make sure Jason's asleep and not about to wake again anytime soon, and in a more level voice remarks, "Could you guys stop gawking like this is a side show?"

Outside the glass, Alfred and Dick watch with bemused expressions; for Bruce, it's disapproval.

"Uh, Tim?" Dick asks, clearly uncomfortable. "Explain?"

"It's something Eros said. And Cassie, too," Tim explains, settling back against the wall beside the cot. He keeps his fingers threaded between Jason's. "This infection, it capitalizes on feelings that are already there, right? With Jason, his instinct when it comes to physical desire…it's probably not a sex thing. Not with his background. But there is a touch component; having physical contact with another person—in this case, the object of his fixation."

Alfred appears impressed. "How could you be sure of that?"

"I…wasn't."

But his theories are usually correct, so it balances out, he thinks. Dick and Bruce look like they disagree, though.

"Tim, this was foolish," Bruce lectures, looming as best he can from the other side of the glass. "This might have gone very differently."

"But it didn't. I might not be great reading people, but except for you, I don't think anyone ever bothered to learn about Jason the way I did."

"He has a point," Dick agrees carefully. "He was a persistent little stalker."

There's a degree of fondness in the statement.

Tim scowls at him and continues. "Besides, like I said, I know the look."

Bruce doesn't seem convinced.

"This is only a temporary solution," he points out. "It won't work forever."

"But it will work for now," Tim insists. "That's what matters."

And there's really no more arguments against it.

⁂

Of course, Jason complains about it when he wakes up.

"I'm going to lose all my street cred," he grumbles, shoveling a plate of Alfred's oatmeal into his mouth with his left hand. The fingers of his right remain interlocked with Tim's.

Tim makes to pull away. "I can stop—"

"I didn't say that," Jason interrupts, tightening his hold on Tim's hand. He knows Tim has no intention of following through with the thread, but that doesn't make it easier to look him in the eye.

Since waking up with Tim by his side, Jason's condition has improved drastically. The color is back in his skin, and he's entirely lucid if Tim is sitting within his personal space. And, of course, his appetite for actual food as returned.

It doesn't completely quell the gnawing hunger, but he knows that's not a physical hunger. There's not much anyone can do about that until the damned arrows are found.

"I think you'll eventually be okay to leave the containment for short periods," Tim tells him, looking thoughtful. "At least if I stay in close quarters."

"Out of the question," Bruce interrupts; he's been looming in the corner with a glare since before Jason woke up.

_Oddly enough, I don't think it's directed at me this time._

"Definitely not a good idea, Timmy," Dick adds.

"Why? He deserves to shower in peace and eat and groom and act like a normal human being instead of a quarantine patient," Tim points out. "It's not like he's contagious."

And, yes, Jason could _definitely_ go for a goddamn shower; the grit on his skin has grit. But almost as soon as he has the thought, another image appears in his mind.

"You planning to shower with me, babybird?" he asks, voice tense as he tries to joke it off, because Tim couldn't possible mean—?

"What? No!" Tim's cheeks darken. "I think after another hour or so, you should be alright with light or no contact. And once we reach that point, I can probably sit outside the bathroom or something. If I'm within reach it should be okay. We can test it out."

"Just what I always wanted, to be a science experiment…"

"No," Bruce says again. "He might attempt to make a run for it or lash out and hurt someone. You in particular, Tim."

"It _is_ the whole reason I agreed to come here," Jason concedes.

"And do you have any intention of going away again?" Tim shoots back, and frowns at Bruce. "At least not voluntarily. Also, the idea of him harming anyone is unlikely, he only reached out for the kid from the alley because he was disoriented and mistook him for me."

Jason's stomach churns. "That doesn't excuse what I almost did."

"He was fine. He was a little shaken up, but I made sure he knows it wasn't you. That you're not like that," Tim assures him, and refocuses on Bruce again. "There's no one here he can do that with because he knows us all. If that weren't the case, he would probably have gotten upset at the fact Damian's been here for the past hour."

In the shadows, Damian scoffs at being caught. "It's not like I was _hiding."_

_And Tim…has a point there. Not sure if it's because he's sitting here with me or not, but now that I think about it, the past two days I couldn't care less about Damian being here._

That's actually a relief. So he's not going to become a creeper to anyone that passably resembles Tim. Just Tim.

_Okay, maybe relief isn't the right word. _

"As for trying to hurt me, I doubt he'd be capable of doing that in his current state," Tim concludes. "Besides, I know how to defend myself. The fact that you don't think I can do that much is a bit insulting."

Jason can't help the snort of laughter at that. He always likes when people other than him stand up to Bruce, but it's somehow better that it's Tim.

"If I might also point out," Alfred speaks up. "It has been a rather long while since Master Jason has been able to enjoy a dinner at a table. With other people in attendance."

Bruce doesn't respond beyond exhaling through his nose.

"And that's it, B," Dick says, trying for levity. "Alfred's spoken."

Bruce doesn't seem amused, either by the situation or the fact he's lost the argument. Nor can he pursue it, because a notification pops up on the Batcomputer that Firefly is making a nuisance of himself again.

Which is how an hour later, Jason finds himself showered (fastest shower in his life while Tim waited outside the door), wearing fresh clothing (how the hell does Alfred always have clothes in his size around?) and sitting in the library with Tim, who's doing something clever on his tablet.

"I figure you'd prefer not to be in the Cave unless it's absolutely necessary," Tim tells him, not looking at him.

"And I have taken the liberty of returning all of the materials you requested earlier," Alfred adds, walking in with an armful of books. "I should hope you treat them with a mite more respect this time though."

"Sorry, Alf," Jason winces.

"Never mind that, Master Jason. Extenuating circumstances, and all that."

He departs again.

"Anyhow, you can keep looking into whatever you were doing before," Tim goes on, still not meeting his gaze. "It's a good idea. Not all information on the subject has been digitized, so it isn't searchable. I've got remote access to my system and the Cave from here, so I can keep working without having to leave you alone."

"Right. Because you've got no choice but to be my babysitter."

He tries to dial down the bitterness there, but Tim detects it easily. Finally, he glances up; his expression is surprised, and strangely soft.

"Being here is my choice. Or didn't you notice the glares B was sending me all night?"

"Yeah, but he always looks like that. That could be about anything."

"True, but in this case it's because I have an issue with you getting dosed with some Olympian Death Kool-Aid."

Tim had explained about the Stygian Sleep when Jason woke up and was trying to understand why they were holding hands. "Better that than me doing something I'd regret."

"And I say what I said before—give it time."

Jason scowls. "It's not fair for you to use you against me right now."

"If it means putting off the possibility of you dying, it's totally fair. Besides, in this family, you know no one is above manipulation. Least of all me."

"Why do you even care?" Jason wants to know. "After everything I've done to you?"

Tim shrugs, eyes darting away again.

"I don't want Bruce and Dick and Alfred going through it again," he mumbles, returning his attention to the tablet. "Losing you again. It…wasn't pretty."

Which Jason's heard before, but he's never exactly been willing to hear the specifics. He wonders if Tim decided to tell him this time, if he'd listen.

They lapse into silence then, both drawn into their respective avenues of research. Thankfully Tim's theory about Jason's affliction has proven true, and he seems to be regaining some control over himself.

Jason recalls what Eros said, about his condition depending on how far Tim was willing to go for him. He's not entirely sold on the idea—there have to be limits, of course—but he won't argue that it's nice to be able to focus on something other than Tim for a few hours.

Just as long as he's within easy reach.

By the early hours of the morning, though, Jason has grown bored.

"We've been at this for hours," he grumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

"Uh-huh."

He shoots a look at Tim, who's frowning over his tablet and clearly didn't hear him, and rolls his eyes.

He wants to have this whole mess sorted out, of course, but right now it doesn't look like it's going to be finished for a while.

They need a break.

Tim_ needs a break, or he's going to pass out._

"Time to take a breather, babybird," he declares a good ten minutes later, after debating with himself about how much of this is his regular concern and how much is Eros-induced mollycoddling.

"We don't have time for breaks."

"Right now, we do. And you'll be able to think better if you get some air and come back with a new perspective. Never know when you might get an idea from something random." Tim still doesn't appear very enthusiastic, and so Jason tries another tack. "It'll make _me_ feel better at least, I feel like I've got ants in my brain."

Which is what convinces Tim; Jason feels only a little guilty about that, figuring it's for the greater good.

_No one is above manipulation, right?_

"Go sit in the family room and queue something up on TV," he orders, something like enthusiasm manifesting in his stomach. "Casablanca or whatever."

Tim makes a face. "You really think that's the best movie idea for right now?"

He considers, then winces.

"Good point. Fine, choose whatever. Something with car crashes and explosions and shit. I'm gonna grab provisions."

"You think _that's_ a good idea?"

"It's downstairs, not navigating Gotham's sewer system," Jason retorts.

"Okay…" But Tim still looks doubtful.

Which Jason remembers the reason for once he's in the kitchen making coffee.

Alfred won't let him cook, insists on whipping up a tray of sandwiches because he doesn't trust anyone in this house to make healthy food choices. Normally Jason would argue the point, because he eats just fine thank you very much, but his thoughts are straying back to Tim, and the fact he's not _here_.

And if he glances at his phone every so often, finger hovering over the Contact button for Tim, well…he can't do anything about that, can he?

At last, Jason heads for the family room, carrying a tray of coffee and tea.

"I've got the drinks, and Alfred said he's going to bring up the rest of the—"

He freezes when he discovers the room is not occupied with just Tim. Dick is sprawled beside him on the couch—_close! Too close!—_while Damian hunches over his sketchpad in the corner, Titus and Pennyworth curled beside him, looking mutinous as ever.

"Bruce is still out on patrol. Gordon needed him for something, so he suggested we head back here and check on you," Dick answers the question that wasn't asked.

_'Suggested' my ass._

Unsaid is the knowledge that if anyone has a chance of taking Jason down if he loses it, even if it's just stalling him until Bruce gets there, Dick and Damian have the best chance.

He can't even argue the point.

Scowling, Jason wanders over to the end table beside the couch and puts down the tray before handing Tim his coffee. The younger man takes it, sniffs and makes a perplexed face. "How'd you know that's how I take my coffee?"

"Hell if I know, apparently it's something I noticed," Jason mutters as he finishes steeping his tea.

"Aw, Little Wing, don't I get any?"

"Fuck off and get it yourself," Jason snaps, still testy about how close Dick is sitting to Tim.

He _knows_ that Dick has no interest in Tim that way, and vice versa, and that he's just here to protect everyone. But the older man is also the one everyone likes best. Tim already likes him better than Jason, which puts a bad taste in his mouth and—

And he's getting lost in his thoughts.

"Move," Jason tells him. "That's my spot."

"You can't have a spot. You don't even live here."

"Neither do you."

"I'm here more often than you are."

"That's irrelevant. It was my spot when I lived here but you were too busy being elsewhere and an asshole, so I guess you wouldn't know that."

"I can move," Tim pipes up quietly.

"Or Jaybird could just sit over here beside me," Dick suggests innocently

Jason is _not_ gritting his teeth. "No thanks. Your ego's already suffocating me from over here, I don't need the added burden of your cologne."

"Guess you're sitting on the floor then."

Tim huffs. "If this is an issue, we can just go back to work. We really should be—"

"No, this is supposed to be a break," Jason interrupts and glares at the older man, "and he's ruining it."

God, he sounds like a child. Tim must think so too, because he stands up and points to the space he was occupying. "Sit."

"No, I don't—"

"Jason, if you don't sit, I'm going back to work."

Which translates to Jason going back to work, since he'll inevitable end up loitering wherever Tim goes. So, he scowls, and throws himself down in Tim's spot, arms crossed and glaring at Dick, who watches the whole thing with a wary look on his face.

That gets blocked when Tim sits between them and shoots them both an irritated glare. "Are we good now?"

_Not really_, Jason thinks but doesn't say, because Dick is still too close to Tim. A beat later, something occurs to him, and he smirks.

He stretches out, wrapping his arm around the back of the couch. Not touching Tim, or his shoulder, but there's a heavy implication of _hands off_ from his body language. Dick's eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hair, and there's worry now written in his eyes, but Jason ignores it.

_He's the one who even made this an issue._

Tim, meanwhile, sits very still, his cheeks stained red. Jason shifts with sudden guilt.

"Sorry," he murmurs, considering pulling his arm back. "I can sit on the floor if—"

"No, it's fine," Tim cuts him off, crossing his arms tight against his body. "Now are we watching, or what?"

"You people are ridiculous," Damian informs them, having watched the whole interchange with mild derision.

"Your face is ridiculous," Jason shoots back and tries to concentrate on the television screen.

Which is more difficult than he expects.

The movie is boring. Worse, it's predictable. He makes a mental note to never let Tim choose the movie ever again, at least until he gets some taste.

Early on, he loses interest in the formulaic plot and static characters, instead occupying himself with studying Tim out of the corner of his eye. The kid really isn't that bad looking, for someone who lives on coffee and microwave dinners. His lashes are longer than he's seen on most men, and his cheekbones are sharp without making his face look pinched. There's also the curve of his mouth, where it's not really smiling, but quirking upward in dry amusement.

_It works well with the snark_, Jason muses as his eyes grow heavier.

He drifts off, the family room fading away, dim light and tinny sound from the television blurring end ebbing, until it's gone and he's no longer there.

_He's in a large chamber, warmed by the dry breeze that winds through the open concept room. The walls are decorated with rich, colourful frescoes, and the floor with meticulous mosaic._

_He leans over a wooden table, frowning down at piles of vellum and papyrus. There are discarded styli and other design tools lying across the sheets of military maneuvers and maps. The nearest one shows a hastily sketched city plan of roads and buildings; the one with the most notations reads _Вιβλιοθήκη _but it barely registers for him. _

_His attention is instead on the man seated across the room. _

_It's Tim—because, of course it is—and he has a stylus stuck behind his ear while he uses another to etch something into a wax tablet. He's also chuckling and shaking his head._

_"You're the one who wanted to stop here and found _another_ city. What is this, the fourth one?"_

_"Fifth," Jason corrects, though he knows Tim is just teasing him. "And it's all planned now. Someone else can do the heavy lifting. Dinocrates is champing at the bit to get to work." He shoves at the maps in front of him in frustration. "And I have things to do! You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to _dictate_ to me?"_

_"He knows he's losing, he's just trying to cling to some semblance of power."_

_"Exactly!"_

_"That doesn't mean you should be impatient. Think it through—you'll regret it if you just rush in. Remember what happened last time? You sliced a relic of the gods in half."_

_"I was fulfilling a prophecy."_

_"You were vandalizing public property. Call it what it is."_

_"They threw me a parade."_

_"Because they're superstitious old goats."_

_Jason crosses his arms. "You're questioning my gods-given destiny to rule all of Asia. I could have your tongue for that." _

_"You already have my tongue," Tim says dryly. "Among other things."_

_Though his face remains solemn, his eyes dance with irreverence and a heat that has Jason licking his lips and suddenly wanting to do something about that smile. _

_Which is when there's a sound of approaching footsteps beyond the chamber. Tim looks down quickly, attention back to his etchings, and Jason draws himself up with an air of irritation that isn't completely false; he hates interruptions. _

_A man wearing something like a linen caftan darts forward and bows._

_"Your majesty, the sculptor Lyssipos has arrived." _

_"Send him in," he replies, a bit of the irritation waning._

_A minute later, an older man appears, graying hair and beard oiled into curls; behind him, two darker-skinned men follow, carrying a large crate between them. From the way the old man snaps at them it's obvious they are slaves. _

_"Your majesty, as always, you look to be in the prime of health!" the old man says; he has a smile like a salesman. _

_"Conquering the world agrees with me," Jason answers in dry amusement. "What brings you so long from your workspace?"_

_"The piece you commissioned is ready." _

_He makes a gesture to the men, who are quick to open the top of the wooden box and bring out a two-foot bust. It has been painted lightly with color, less garish than most artists prefer, closer to realistic. The face and shoulders rising from the marble are stocky, nose straight and locks of hair painstakingly hewn from the stone. _

_"I spent much longer on this than any other before it, majesty, and believe you will be pleased, though I would be humbled to know your thoughts on it."_

_"I don't know," Jason chuckles as the men place it on the crate, and turns to Tim. "'Wife', what do I think of it?"_

_Tim rolls his eyes, and both ignore the scandalized expressions from everyone in the room not privy to their dynamic. He lays his tools gently aside and wanders over to circle the bust with a critical eye. It is some time before he speaks._

_"Master Lysippus has done well to hide that receding hairline you're so worried about."_

_Jason scowls, running a hand through his hair—it's longer in the back than he's used to—but the expression doesn't remain long. He's too busy studying Tim as he continued to evaluate the sculpture. Jason likes the way he wrinkles his brow and the set of his mouth. _

_Tim traces the statue's eyelids and cheekbones with a finger, then brushes across the curved lips almost lovingly. Jason is reminded of the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, and rather hopes Tim isn't about to embrace a piece of stone in his place._

_"It is graceful, elegant and has good symmetry," Tim pronounces at long last, and Lysippus preens. "Although I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness…it doesn't look a thing like him."_

_The earns a sharp gasp, and the old man looks as if he has just been struck. The slaves' eyes flick toward one another, and no one seems to know what to say to that._

_Irritation flares in his chest and Jason feels the inclination to snarl, until he notices the teasing in Tim's eyes._

That little shit…

_"My liegeman is simply enjoying a joke at my expense," Jason informs the old man. "The piece is perfect. A true artistic marvel, as expected." He reaches for a piece of vellum and scribbles a hasty note, ignoring Tim's pained expression at the informal proceedings, and then uses his personal seal to legitimize it. "Take this to Harpalus, Machatas' son. He oversees the treasury and will see to your needs."_

_"Thank you, your majesty."_

_"Now, I'll say farewell, as I must have some words with _philalexandros _here about inappropriate humor." _

_"Your majesty," the men echo, and soon Jason is alone with Tim once more. _

_He grimaces at him. "Do you see what you did? They're scandalized by your irreverence."_

_"Maybe, but you like that about me, and that's all that matters," Tim replies, approaching. _

_"Yes, but no one _else_ is supposed to know that. I'm meant to be the god-king—remember that cynical philosopher in Corinth? He insisted I'm ruled by your thighs."_

_"Hm," Tim considers. "Aren't you?"_

_"Rather the opposite," Jason grins, drawing close to the shorter man. "I seem to recall you having a few choice things to say about _my_ thighs." __He tips a finger beneath his chin. "Come, let's take this somewhere else."_

_"Why?" Tim teases. "Are you afraid your double is watching?"_

_Jason's eyes flit to the lifeless stone irises of the statue, and shudders. "Well, _now_ I am…"_

_He bends closer to Tim, and can feel his breath on his face—_

Jason jolts awake to discover he's nodded off against Tim's shoulder—no, worse; he's practically curled into him, face in the crook of his neck.

Tim is sitting rigid, neck and cheeks radiating warmth, though he's staring carefully ahead of him. Jason hurriedly shoves himself away. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Tim croaks.

Dick is watching the whole thing with evident concern his eyes. "You were talking in your sleep."

"Shit. What did I say?" He doesn't remember everything from his dream, but he's pretty sure at the end there he was making some kind of innuendo.

"No idea."

"It sounded like Greek," Damian says, glancing up from his sketching. "Not any dialect I'm familiar with, though."

"Oh. Good." Jason swallows. "Also, what the hell?"

From everyone else's expressions, they're wondering the same thing.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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_Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates-or just to drop me a line :)_


	7. VII

Tim stares at the screen of his tablet, reading the information but none of it registering. He's been at this too long.

Crime scene photos from the GCPD's system and coroners reports from half a dozen murder-suicides that took place throughout the city in the past week, each one more brutal than the last. One guy took a meat pounder to his girlfriend's head; another a fire poker to his husband's face.

_I wish I could get out there and investigate the scenes myself._

He's been effectively benched and it's starting to give him cabin fever, even though he knows it's important to stay with Jason right now.

Bruce took off to Amsterdam about an hour again; like Tim, he prefers to retrace crimes from their origin. It's how they find clues the cops miss. Dick's doing the same right now in Gotham, revisiting all the crime scenes with Duke by his side in case his retrocognition can help them any. He has no idea where Steph is tonight, but if Barbara's radio silence is any indicator, they're probably working something big together.

Jason's been sitting beside him on the couch in the study, three separate books open on his lap and a notepad where he's jotting down various comparisons of the information.

(Because _"_I'm not defacing a first edition version of _Les Métamorphoses, _especially not one with etchings by Picasso, Tim. It's just not done.")

The first hour he managed to keep absorbed in his task, but Tim's noticed him stopping more often between annotations, rubbing at a spot on his neck or over the spot in his shoulder where he was shot.

Whenever he notices Tim looking, they both immediately look away and go back to work; but after another period of research—getting shorter and shorter after each pause—Jason's back to twitching and looking guilty.

_He's going to have his neck rubbed raw in another hour._

Despite the fact the whole thing was Tim's idea, it's harder to remain unaffected about the need for physical contact than he thought. And Jason notices pretty fast that Tim isn't as at ease with the 'treatment' plan as he's been insinuating.

He thought Jason putting his arm around his shoulders earlier was mostly to bother Dick, whose attempts at protectiveness had just made the situation more awkward. But when Jason does it again later, unthinkingly draping himself around Tim's shoulder, Tim can't help going stiff as a board.

Jason pulls away immediately, as if he's been burned. "Sorry."

"No, it's…fine."

"Stop lying, obviously you're not," Jason answers, shifting to the other edge of the couch to put at least three feet between them. "You don't have to force yourself to do this. I can get through it without you."

Tim sets aside his tablet. "Because _that_ worked out _so_ well the first time you tried it."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. I'm more than capable of figuring out how to get through this without using your skin as a security blanket." He pauses. "That came out so much disturbing than I intended."

"How was it ever _not_ going to sound disturbing?" Tim wonders, and then sighs. "Look, I don't mind. The longer you stay in a healthy headspace, the more time we have to find a cure."

"Yeah, but if you're so friggen uncomfortable with it—"

"I'm not!"

"Bullshit."

"No, really, it's fine. It's my choice."

"Yeah, say that without flinching and maybe I'll believe you," Jason mutters, shoulders slumping. "If you're going to freeze up every time I go near your personal bubble, screw it. Like I don't feel like enough of a creep…"

Tim can see how much he hates this, the fact that he's making Tim uncomfortable—the fact that making Tim uncomfortable upsets him at all. He's never cared before; it's always been a kind of unofficial hobby.

But now that his brain and hormones are becoming compromised, it's more important to him than ever not to cross boundaries. Or at least what he perceives as boundaries.

Tim bows his head.

He's been managing his feelings about all this by remaining clinical, dividing him from the particulars of the situation the way he's always done. It's the sort of thing that works on hard cases, the kind involving little kids or serial murders. He forgot that it doesn't work so well when dealing with people.

_Communication_, he remembers Steph chiding him during one argument. _Honesty._

Nodding to himself, Tim forces himself to appear relaxed.

"It's not like that. I just—I've never been really good at all the…" He waves his hand, searching for the words, "…physical intimacy stuff."

Jason blinks, not having expected that. "Oh."

"Yeah." Tim shifts. "I know it's hard to tell when I'm next to Dick or Steph or someone who…"

"Who has personal space issues?"

"Yeah. But with them I've gotten used to it. But with you, you've never exactly…"

"Put hands on you except to lay you out flat on the floor?" Jason suggests, and then turns red. "I mean beating the crap out of you! Not the other thing that…! Fuck, he wasn't kidding about the innuendo thing, was he?"

"Oh, I don't know. If not for everything going on, I'm pretty sure you'd still be making jokes to make everyone uncomfortable," Tim muses, his own ears warm at the accidental image Jason's words provided.

Jason tilts his head to one side, and then nods. "Fair."

They smirk at each other for a moment. Then something thoughtful passes across Jason's face.

"What?"

"When you say _physical _intimacy," Jason starts slowly, "d'you mean just occupying someone else's personal space, or…?"

He trails off, and it takes a few seconds before Tim interprets the meaning. His cheeks may actually be on fire right now. "Uh…"

"You're kidding."

"Well, the first one's always kind of an issue," Tim mumbles, looking away, "so I don't really—like I said, I'm not used to anyone wanting to get close to me, let alone actually trying it. Which always made everything kind of awkward."

"And the second thing?"

"…that made it awkward, too."

"So, you haven't—? Like, not even with _Blondie_?"

There's incredulity there, but no judgment, which is somewhat of a relief; he's too used to other guys looking like he should have his man card revoked for not pouncing on a gorgeous girl like Steph.

_As if anyone would ever get away with _pouncing_ without getting a brick to the face. _

But Jason seems genuinely curious, which makes Tim want to try to answer.

"No?" Tim winces at the uncertainty in the word and glances up to make sure there's still no judgment on Jason's face. "Not because—not because I didn't—or she wasn't—we fooled around, but never—she'd already done the whole unwanted pregnancy thing. We wanted to be careful and wait until we were both sure we wanted to. And then she died, then came back because she wasn't _really_ dead, and we broke up. But it was a long time ago, and then we never got another opportunity because—well, there was Bruce dying and not dying, and other people dying, and then losing Robin, and just…" He lets his words trail as he realizes he's been babbling. "Sorry. Babbling."

Jason makes a dismissive gesture. "Nah, it's cute."

There's a moment where they both process his words, and then Jason's rubbing at his neck and Tim's coughing because he thinks he might have choked on his tongue.

"I'm going to…" Jason stands, starts rummaging through his pockets, and then jerks his head toward the balcony, "Smoke break."

"Right," Tim answers, carefully neutral.

Tim doesn't complain about the smoking, even though he hates it. Jason's under enough stress right now, if the nicotine helps calm him even a little a bit, Tim can put up with it for the short-term.

_Not like he's going to be around once we fix all this._

He lets Jason make his escape and for the first time since the conversation began, takes a full breath.

_It's just Eros' blood. He doesn't actually think that. _

The truth doesn't make his heart stop fluttering.

"Fuck," he mutters, letting his face fall into his hand; he rubs at his face in frustration.

"Wallowing in your failure as usual, Drake?"

He jumps and then shoots a glare across the room at the pint-sized bane of his existence.

"Why aren't you out terrorizing the streets of Gotham?"

"I'm here to ensure the present status quo endures and neither you nor Todd end up compromised," Damian retorts. Then Tim blinks, the kid smirks at him. "I'm babysitting you two morons."

"Well my life just hit another low…"

"I have also been doing research of my own to pass the time, since my talents are being ignored in favor of mundane surveillance tasks," the boy continues. "I was intrigued at Todd's apparent symptoms of xenoglossia and decided to peruse the security footage to see what might have precipitated it."

"…And?"

"It wasn't until you arrived that it started. He called you _philtatos_. It means 'most beloved'."

Tim tries not to choke. "How do you know _that_?"

"Anyone who has read the _Iliad_ in the original Greek could tell you that," Damian drawls.

"Well, excuse me, I had an education meant for _this_ millennium." Tim tries not to croak, running his hands through his hair in frustrations. The strands are stringy today and he tries to remember when he washed it last was; probably before Jason was brought to the manor.

"Odd that he'd call you that, though," Damian continues. "He has that habit of assigning the most absurd monikers to anyone within a ten-foot radius. It's not exactly the type of thing he would say. And to _you_ of all people."

Tim frowns, ignoring the insult. "You think it's a symptom of the infection?"

"Perhaps. The term itself, or the tongue in question. In case you were curious, which I doubt since unless it involves a computer your interest becomes depressingly cursory, the language Todd was mumbling in while drooling on your shoulder was _Archaia Makedonike_."

"English, brat."

"Ancient Macedonian, you classless twit. The language itself was prevalent in the Hellenistic period before giving way to its superior successor, Koine, when it was brought by the military forces of Alexander the Great."

"Conqueror of the known world at the time—why am I not surprised you're so well-versed."

"_Tt_. Of _course_ I am. As a child, Mother brought me on a journey to follow in his footsteps along what was once his Empire."

_You're still a child_, Tim doesn't say, because he just doesn't have the energy for the inevitable resulting fight. "Sounds like quality family bonding time."

"It was meant to show me all that could be achieved in a short lifetime," Damian sniffs. "And what could be lost just as easily."

"Because he died young?"

"Not only that, but because of his rather questionable decisions. Like pouring a considerable amount of his treasury into a funeral monument for one of his generals. He was so besotted with the man he died less than a year later. It's disgraceful."

"Right, because caring about someone is a bad thing."

"It is possible to care without being ruled by one's emotions."

"Yeah, you're such an _excellent_ example of that," Tim deadpans. At Damian's glare, he makes a defensive gesture with his hand. "What do you want me to say? People do weird stuff for the people they care about."

Damian narrows his eyes. "Evidently."

He continues to watch Tim in a way he's not entirely sure he likes. "What?"

"Nothing."

"It sounds like you've got something to say."

Jason chooses that moment to return, although he halts in the door when he notices the way Tim and Damian are glaring at one another. "Am I walking in on something here?"

"I was simply demonstrating Drake's continued ignorance in several arenas," Damian replies, and pushes past Jason. "I've wasted enough of my day pandering to your nonsense. Shout if you need help." His gaze lingers on Jason with disgust. "Or possibly a firehose."

"Was that demon-speak for 'make good choices'?" Tim calls after him and noticing Jason's bemused expression offers a half shrug. "He will do great things."

"See, I knew all that getting on his case was just your way of showing you like him," Jason teases and settles back on the couch. Much closer to Tim this time, body angled toward him; he can smell leather and the acrid smell of cigarettes.

He forces a grin, "Tell no one."

"Lips are sealed," Jason replies, abruptly stretching out and tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

The gesture would normally make Tim want to melt, to bend closer to Jason as well; at first it does, but the reason for it remains starkly in his mind, and instead his skin crawls.

The study suddenly seems too small, too close, magnified by Jason's focus on him.

_Need a distraction. _

"There's a lot of CCTV footage to go through," he says, clearing his throat and standing quickly. He ambles over to the desk to grab Bruce's laptop, holding up to Jason. "Feel like going through half?"

"Not particularly, but only because that's the most boring job ever."

"And reading scholarly articles dissecting the exact syntax of some ancient play isn't?"

"Don't act like if it was Klingon or something you wouldn't have a field day."

But Jason accepts the computer, putting his books and notes to one side. Tim exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.

They sit in silence again for a while, one that's somehow more tense than earlier. Tim's stomach keeps leaping, waiting for the next time Jason needs to reach out to him, simultaneously craving and dreading it.

So it's no surprise that he physically jolts when Jason suddenly announces, "I think I've got something."

"What?" he asks quickly, hoping his reaction wasn't that noticeable. He moves to peek over Jason's shoulder, considering a timestamped video of an Upper East Side apartment. There's a crowd gathered outside as paramedics load two covered stretchers into an ambulance.

"Right there." Jason points at a grainy image in the upper left corner, almost obscured by the lighting. "See this woman?"

Tim studies the image of the woman in a leather jacket and skin-tight pants. "Yeah?"

"That's Carrie Cutter."

"Carrie…" Tim consults his mental rolodex. "Carrie Cutter as in _Cupid_?"

"Yep."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. I'm pretty familiar with anyone Roy might have had beef with down in his corner of the world. You know, just in case."

Which is a smart thing to do, really, considering old enemies always have a tendency to return when they're least expected.

And just…great. Because Carrie Cutter, along with being crazy to the point of earning honorary Arkham status, also happens to be a genetically enhanced special-ops soldier that knows how not to be found. If she's got her hands on divine weapons somehow, it's going to make apprehending her much more of a challenge.

_Especially _those_ weapons. If any of us get tagged with those, we're done. I've been around when the Family gets turned against each other, and it's never pretty. _

The memory of Joker's macabre dinner party still makes him gag reflexively.

Tim leans forward, balancing his weight on the desk with his palms, and studies the image again. "Could be a coincidence."

"Has _anything _about all this felt coincidental to you?"

"Touché." Tim shakes his head. "Damn. So, _Cupid_ stole Cupid's bow and arrows?"

_What even is my life anymore?_

"And the MO makes sense now, if you think about it," Jason points out; he absently starts to rub the back of Tim's hand with his thumb. Tim swallows and fights the conflicting urge to jerk his hand away or lean further into Jason's space. "She has that whole crazed 'if-I-can't-be-happy-no-one-can' thing going on. If she's got Eros' diviners, she could accomplish whatever she wants pretty easily."

"Does she still have that obsession with Green Arrow?"

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Maybe we should let Oliver know she's heading his way."

"Or not."

"Jason!"

"No, seriously, hear me out, this isn't me hating on Queen."

"Sure…"

"Look at the pattern of robberies and deaths—if she's headed out west, she's taking the long way and at a slow stroll. There are tons of direct flights from Amsterdam to Star City. She could be there in like a day if that's her goal, but she's moving so slowly—based on the places she's hit, and how long it takes her to get there, I'd say she's driving." He traces a line from Europe to the East Coast. "And possibly taking a boat. Not the Carnival way, either. I know people like to go incognito sometimes, but even that's Bruce levels of paranoid."

"And he once rode a goat truck across the border of Qurac…"

"Also, there are more direct routes from _here_ to the West Coast."

"So why come to Gotham at all," Tim says, and steeples his fingers. "Either she's taking her time for a reason, or she was never heading for Star City."

"Then what does she want?"

"And how has she dropped so completely off the radar since she got here?"

Jason shrugs and leans back, stretching his arms and yawning; his arm brushes against Tim's shoulder on its way down.

"When's the last time you slept?" Tim asks quickly, wishing his voice didn't sound like it was squeaking.

"Like sleep or power naps? Because I've had a lot of those."

Tim rolls his eyes. "If you don't get some rest we'll have more to worry about than accidental innuendos. You should get some sleep."

"The irony of you telling anyone that…"

"I've never had to fight off an Olympian bloodborne disease."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly comfortable falling asleep right now. I keep seeing weird shit."

"Like what?"

"I…can't even remember. The whole thing just gives me a bad feeling."

"You want to stay in my room?" This time it's Jason who jumps and shoots Tim a panicked look. "Not like that! I just figured; it's got all my stuff there. People sometimes take comfort in objects, and I just figured maybe being surrounded by my stuff would help. And I somehow don't see you as the teddy bear type."

Jason barks out a surprised laugh. "Hey, leave Paddington out of this!"

"You didn't actually have a stuffed toy named Paddington!"

"Not just a stuffed toy, I'll have you know, it was _actually_ a Paddington Bear," Jason retorts. "My mother used to read the stories to me, and she found him in a second-hand shop the Christmas before she…" Jason trails off, the levity in his face smoothing into careful blankness. "Anyway. I pretended like I was too old for stuff like that, but I was just happy she was lucid enough to even do Christmas that year."

Tim can't help the way his eyes soften at the story. He's never heard Jason say anything about his life before Bruce, at least nothing personal.

Jason seems to notice the scrutiny, because he looks away. "Anyway. Not important. But we can try that whole…staying in your room thing. It would be nice to catch some Zs."

They pack up their things and head down the hall to Tim's room; all the while, Tim is trying to figure out what possessed him to suggest this. It's true, comfort objects are a thing, but he could just as easily have brought a whole bunch of his stuff to Jason's room for the same effect.

_Except Jason doesn't go near his room unless he's unconscious and Bruce puts him there to recover. _

He flicks on the light as Jason brushes past. "I haven't been here in a while, so Alfred's probably changed the sheets and everything. Good to go if you want to sleep."

"And, uh…you'll stay, right?"

"Yeah," Tim replies softly. "At least until you fall asleep, then I have to take care of a few things. Alfred will probably nag me to eat and shower and changes clothes or something."

_And I need to make a trip home to have a conversation with my unwanted houseguest._

"Oh, the horror," Jason says neutrally, though he starts rubbing at the back of his neck again, irritating the already red skin there.

Tim reaches over automatically and moves his hand away. A week ago, doing that would have probably gotten him punched; now Jason simply lets him, his body unconsciously leaning toward him.

"Listen, if you wake up and I'm not in here, don't freak out. I'm probably in the kitchen being force-fed grits or something. And if I'm not, just call me and I'll find you. We can even FaceTime while you wait."

"Whatever," Jason says, trying to sound nonchalant. He plops himself down on Tim's bed, then frowns down at the bedsheet. "Holy shit this is soft."

"It should be, it's got a thread count of a thousand."

"Spoiled ass rich boy," Jason mutters, lying back on the bed. A surprised and pleased expression appears on his face. "Okay you know what? Forget obsessing over you, I want your bedroom set."

This time it's Tim who gives a surprised laugh.

⁂

_"I will _not_ be humiliated before my army."_

_The lord marshal's face resembles a misshapen beat, fury twisting his features; the skin beneath his nose is raw from the scented oils he's been using to block the acrid scent of the funeral pyres. Jason has mostly become familiar with the odor by now—smoke and burning flesh and blood. _

_"What humiliation is there in appeasing the gods?" he counters and is surprised his voice remains so calm and measured; Tim is a reassuring presence at his back. _

_"Returning Chryses' daughter is tantamount to the theft of my rightly taken trophy," the king of men snarls. "Find me a replacement and I may consider it, but I will not be the only man among us without a prize."_

_The quiet among the men is pointed, saturated with disagreement; even the obstinate man's brother does not stand with him on the dais where kings and their liegemen have gathered. But Jason knows no one will step forward to say anything. _

Only me, as usual.

_"Son of Atreus, you know as well as anyone that we take our prizes from lawful combat. There's ample opportunity to replace the girl, or even her worth in gold, three and four times over. All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings, and we don't owe you compensation when it was you who angered the gods in the first place."_

By taking the girl whose life I was trying to save just to screw me over, I would add.

_A few of the men nod at his words; in the background, the moaning cries of the dying fill the air, a cacophony that has haunted the shore for ten days since the plague hit. _

_"Show your men that you're as humble in nature as you are proficient in battle, and make amends." He doubts the pig will notice the insult there. "End this plague before more die." _

_Fury contracts the other man's pupils to fine dots. "You will learn your place, boy. Just because divine blood runs through your veins and your mother raised you to believe you are special does not mean you might speak to me as an equal." Jason bristles but is immediately cut off again. "Silence! I have no interest in whatever clever words your puppet master would have you speak."_

_The blunt insult instead of flowery political doublespeak is surprising enough to still the words on his lips. He senses when Tim stiffens; they both know that last was directed at him. _

_"If I hear further suggestions that I give up my property without receiving something of like value in exchange, then I will sacrifice the man who suggests it, along with Chryses' bitch daughter to appease the gods. Perhaps you might volunteer, Peliades," the lord marshal concludes. _

_"I'm not afraid of speaking up when it's needed," Jason growls, "and we all know you can't afford to sacrifice me."_

_"Listen to the arrogance! It is the same you have displayed from the moment you arrived here. I believe it to be high time you face consequence for your heedless words."_

_"Consequence," Jason echoes, calm; Tim shifts closer, knowing that his outward composure is a sign of danger. The men around them shift as well, some of them whispering; more than one man's fingers twitch toward their sword. "It's _you_ who should think of consequence." _

_"Careful," Tim cautions in his ear, breath hot across his neck as he comes to step beside him. He has to keep from rubbing at the area with his thumb._

_"Is that a threat?" the king of men demands. _

_"An observation. How much longer do you think these men will last, without me to lead them into battle? How many times have I been the one who turned the tides of defeat to victory, while you remained in the back ranks?"_

_Now the whispering is louder, angrier; voices of dissent and outrage. _

_"I am High King!" the older lord roars. "Every man here knelt before me when we came to these shores or swore oaths to the gods to follow my command. Even your beloved Menoitiades whom you shield as if he is your _wife_." Tim clenches his fists but carefully doesn't meet Jason's eyes; acknowledgement of one another now will only prove the argument. "You are the only one that always considered yourself above such things."_

_Jason is furious. Green like the cold sea edges around his vision, and it would be so easy to leap across the three-foot gap and snap the bastard's neck. He could do it before anyone else might react, and he's fast enough to get away before anyone retaliates. _

_But Tim isn't._

_Tim who remains tense, shoulders set and whose fingers make a minute twitching motion against his side, silently beseeching Jason to keep his calm._

_It doesn't work._

_"I have nothing to prove to you, or any who _swore oaths_ to you," Jason snarls through gritted teeth. "The horse-tamers have never threatened my home, have never stolen our stock or torched our fields. I chose to be here, to sail to this wretched city and help your half-wit brother regain a woman who likely doesn't wish to be reclaimed."_

_More murmuring; it's a sentiment no one has wanted to voice._

_"Have a care with your words, boy; not all gods who listen are favorable to you."_

_"And what would you know of the gods? I'm closer to their ilk than you ever will be, without the scandal that troubles your bloodline. If anyone should have these men's fealty, it's not you. Perhaps _you_ should be the one who bends knee in appeasement." _

_The crowd is outright clamoring now, supporters and enemies alike shouting over one another. The older man's eyes widen in triumph. "You think yourself better than me? Or than the men I command?"_

_"No, they are my equals. You're the dog-faced son of a bitch that isn't fit to clean the boots of the men you profess to lead into battle."_

_Exclamations of disbelief. _

_"That's enough!" Tim hisses, jabbing him with an elbow._

_"Yes, listen to your keeper, Peliades. He seeks to save you from being named a traitor to this army, and suffering punishment for it. Though I think we are beyond the point of playing this off as country bumpkin ignorance to custom. Your war prizes are forfeit; I will take them under tutorship until you come to your senses and offer submission to me."_

_Jason's muscles pull taut in incandescent anger. "You have _no_ right to do that!"_

_"I have every right, especially since you are so keen to take mine. In fact, I demand the first woman you took as spoil at Ilion—fetch me Briseis' daughter. She will replace the woman the gods wish me to return." _

_"If you touch her, you forgo your victory in this war. I will take my ships and return to my land."_

_"Flee, then, if your heart urges you! I have no fear of you—of all the kings the son of Kronos nurtures, you are the one I hate the most. Go with your ships, run with your tail between your legs. But I will have the woman before you go." _

_Jason's hand goes to his sword, but Tim's hand is on his then._

_"Leave it," he whispers, frantic. "There are greater punishments than death. Let's regroup and find a solution to this away from prying eyes."_

_Jason knows he's right. The men around them are filled with shock and disapproval, but none of the cowards will support him if he strikes down the king of men._

_And so instead of slicing the ignorant prick's kneecaps out from under him, Jason simply spits at his feet. _

_"You're a coward with the face of a dog but the heart of a deer. You've never had the courage to arm for battle along with the men you boast to lead because you fear death. You're faithless, taking the property of those who speak contrary to you, preferring to rule over a kingdom of nobodies. Your words today doom you and your men to disgraceful ends." He glares at all the men gathered there simply watching. "I won't fight alongside this army any longer, and without me, you'll all fall, ground beneath the feet of the man-killing prince. The day will come when you send your toadies to me to beg, and you'll kneel before me crying for forgiveness, but I'll give you nothing but laughter as you bleed in the dust before me. You will all die in ignominy for what the son of Atreus does today."_

_And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks away. _

_Tim follows, as do the rest of the men sworn to him. _

_"I'll kill him," Jason fumes under his breath when they are far enough away not to be heard. "I would have if you hadn't stopped me."_

_"I know. And then you would have been struck down, which I couldn't allow," Tim soothes. "Be patient. I'll think of a plan, you know I always do."_

_"And in the meantime, that sack of pig shit will take Hippodamea and vent his frustrations toward me on her," Jason growls._

_"If he rapes her, he violates the life of one who is under your gods given protection. His men and the gods will turn on him if he does. After that display, he's not going to court anymore of their disapproval. She will be safe until you bend knee to him."_

_"Which won't happen."_

_"There are more important things than your pride," Tim reminds him, a bit of reprimand in his tone. "Don't lower yourself to his level, to the level of men, when you are as a god."_

_Jason blinks, and turns to Tim. "That's it."_

_"What?"_

_"I'll go to my mother."_

_Tim's face pales. "No!"_

_"Why not? And it better not be because you think she hates you." _

_"She does hate me, but that's besides the point. I just…have a bad feeling. The silver-footed are like the sea—unmerciful and uncaring who they harm in their storm. That path leads to death, I think."_

_"Yes. _His_."_

_Tim is silent and continues to look worried. _

_"I don't need your permission to do this," Jason tells him, a little sour that he doesn't have his support on this matter. _

_Something like hurt flickers across his face, but then Tim's expression goes carefully blank. "I would never presume to tell you what to do." _

_"That's not what everyone on this gods forsaken beach thinks!"_

_"Since when have you ever cared what people think?"_

_"You can't stop me doing this," Jason snaps._

_Tim looks sad now. "I know."_

_He turns to leave._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"I'm going to prepare Hippodamea for what's to come. Somehow I doubt you will be able to feign sympathy long enough to shoulder that burden," he replies coldly, and stalks away. _

_Jason watches him go, his righteous anger continuing to simmer, until it occurs to him that Tim is actually quite angry with him. Some of the bite goes out of his rage, and worry creeps through his body. _

_"No, wait," he starts, hurrying after him. "Don't go—"_

"—Tim!"

Jason sits upright in bed, arm outstretched as if to make a grab for a hand or arm, only to grasp air.

A maelstrom of different emotions cloud his mind, blocking his awareness of the room around him for several long seconds while he fights for his bearings. Anger and hurt and guilt and fear, all tied up with longing, playing on repeat in his head.

He has the strangest compulsion to make amends for something and he doesn't remember what.

"Fuck," he murmurs, pulling his hand back close to his body, elbow to chest, hand pressing against his shoulder. The skin radiates heat through the cotton of his t-shirt, warmer than his normal body temperature; probably from the wound.

He is alone, surrounded by pillows and a comforter that should smell like Tim but don't (because Alfred washed them, so they're new), in a room that feels somehow too big (which it shouldn't, it's the same size as the other rooms, as his room that he never goes into if he can help it. It's bigger than the holding cell was).

A glance at the digital clock reads two in the morning. Prime patrol time, and more importantly, four hours since he put his head down. He's pretty sure that's the most sleep he's had in a week, even if it was cut short by another of those maddening dream sequences that vanish from his memory in direct relation to how awake he becomes.

_Where's Tim?_

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, ready to go looking for him in the house, before remembering what he said before he fell asleep.

_Don't freak out._

Right. No problem. Tim's just off somewhere having a human moment, which is just as well. He probably needs a break from Jason. Jason _knows_ he needs a break from Tim—from everyone really. He can't remember the last time he was in someone's constant presence.

This is a good thing, he tells himself as he glances around the room, absently picking at the dry skin on the side of his thumb. He didn't really look around when he first walked in. His brain was still trying to process the concept of _Tim_ being the one to suggest his room as being the best place for Jason to relax.

And the surprise that he was actually _right_.

Tim is everywhere in these walls—video game posters and obscure pop culture refences—and furniture. There are candid photographs of him and his friends—Jason scowls at one of him and the Super Clone standing way too close together—and half-finished projects of wire and circuit. Clothes and books are strewn across the floor and—

"Christ, kid, you're a goddamned slob."

He never really took note of that quirk of Tim's before, probably because they never really hung out. His knowledge of the kid's lifestyle was limited to his own notions of what spoiled rich boys were like, and the general observation that his replacement ran on coffee and energy drinks.

His thumb is bleeding now from his continued picking, and he wipes it angrily on his pants, standing up. He needs a distraction. Otherwise, he's going to go looking for Tim, or blow up his phone with calls until he picks up. He needs to prove to himself that he still has some control—test how long he can manage on his own, or at least test how long it takes between Tim leaving him alone and the anxious thoughts to set in.

_He's coming back. He wanted me to be here, or he wouldn't have suggested it. _

Jason just has to be patient.

Which…yeah, that was an issue even before this fixation crap.

"Screw this, I'm not just sitting here," he grumbles, and starts wandering around the room, sorting clothes and tools and whatever other detritus has gathered on the floor. Cleaning is both mindless and immersive, something to do with his hands instead of scratch bloody welts into his skin.

And yet, he still drops everything when his phone vibrates.

"Tim?" he asks in the same breath that he unlocks the phone.

"Sorry." Barbara actually sounds apologetic. "Just me."

Disappointment hits him like a punch to the face. "No, yeah, it's fine."

"How are you holding up?"

Of course she knows what's going on, too.

"Spectacular," he says dryly, running a hand through his hair. "Can we maybe can the sympathy? I'm getting enough of that over here as it is. And you never call just to check in."

There's a beat, and then Barbara speaks again, still in her own voice, but more businesslike. "I may have found something."

He likes that about her. She doesn't get upset when called out on something, nor does she spend time on bullshit.

_How the hell she dated Dick so long will forever be a mystery._

"What?" he asks, studying a strip of picture booth photos of Steph and Tim; the typical assortment of funny faces, pressed close together. Jason frowns, tugging absently at his hair.

"I'm not sure it's anything, yet," Barbara cautions, "but it's almost certainly related to your situation."

"And how's that?"

"Because it involves Carrie Cutter."

Jason straightens up. "_What_?"

"As soon as you and Tim established that Cupid was involved—both Cupids, I guess—I set up a search algorithm to track her whereabouts for the past month or so." Of course she's been monitoring everything from her little command center; this goddamn family and their surveillance… "It's a bit too neat, someone with her modus operandi just bumping into the _real_ Cupid."

"And we don't do coincidence."

"Exactly."

"So, she had to be sent there by someone or something. Specifically, to steal from Eros."

"Yeah. Still working on who, though," Barbara agrees. "That's not the most interesting part, though."

Jason's scalp is beginning to burn from the distracted tugging, but he doesn't stop. The pain is punishing, keeps him focussed on Barbara's voice, and not the urge to hang up on her to call Tim. "Lay it on me."

"I've got newspaper reports from the village of Delphi in Greece with a woman of her description killed a blind twelve-year-old two weeks ago. Sliced her throat with one of her arrowheads and walked away, took out anyone that tried to stop her."

"Fuck." Jason almost bites his tongue.

Carrie Cutter's always been a murderer, but from what he knows of her from Roy, she never hurt a kid. His fingers itch with the need to punch something; he yanks his fingers out of his hair, several strands coming away with it, and slams his fist down on Tim's desk. It creaks at the force.

"You okay?"

"Better than she's going to be," he replies tightly. "What else?"

"You heard me say Delphi, right?"

There's a pause, like she's letting him process, which he's glad for; he did miss that the first time. Jason thinks the news over again, remembering bits and pieces memorized from _National Geographic_ when he was a kid.

"Delphi," he repeats. "Like the _Oracle of Delphi _Delphi?"

"Exactly."

His back goes even more rigid. "Isn't it common in a lot of myths that people who can see the future tend to be blind?"

"Good memory."

"So we're thinking the kid was a seer."

"I'm thinking the kid was the _actual_ Oracle of Delphi."

Jason whistles. "But there hasn't been one of those in hundreds of years, right?"

"Not since Theodosius I closed the temple when the Pythia gave him some bad news. Five years later, he was dead, and the Visigoths had captured Rome, and after that it wasn't safe to be an oracle. But secret societies have been started over less."

"Still, how would someone like _Carrie Cutter_ know or even be interested in looking up some secret oracle? Even for Queen, she's small-time."

"Still working on that part."

"And if she did talk to the oracle beforehand, what did the kid tell her that made her kill her?"

"Unfortunately, there was no tech anywhere around to pick up on that. Not even tourists taking cellphone videos."

"Fuck."

"But lucky for us, we have someone that can sort of see ghosts."

Jason's eyes widen. "Duke."

"Exactly," Barbara says, and sounds smug, like she's just managed a checkmate against fate or circumstance or something. "As soon as he's done with Dick, I'm sending him on quick trip to Greece. He'll get a kick out of the plane, I think."

Jason winces.

It won't be easy for the newest member of the family to watch a kid being murdered, all for Jason. Worse is the fact he's a hundred percent sure Duke's seen worse.

Instead of voicing that thought, however, he says, "Keep me updated."

"Will do."

There's a heavy silence.

"Do you want me to stay on the line?" Barbara asks after a moment. "Until Tim gets back."

Jason's first instinct is a snappish retort, a denial that he needs her pity.

But his hand has found its way back into his hair, tearing at the strands as he anxiously waits for the younger man to return and for all he knows, it could be anywhere from ten minutes to ten hours before he sees him again.

He shivers at the thought.

_That…would be bad. _

And so he clears his throat and tells Barbara in a gruff voice, "Yeah. Okay."

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	8. VIII

Tim gets out of his shower at the Nest, reaching for his phone before his towel. The digital numbers tell him he hasn't been away from the manor for more than an hour; Jason should still be okay.

When Tim left, the older man was sleeping like a log. He didn't even stir when Tim tripped and accidentally knocked into his display of Gundam models. That's a bit concerning—everyone in the family has been trained to sleep lightly and react to any inexplicable shift or creak in a room.

_Clearly the infection's taking it out of him…_

He towels off, struggles into his gear and applies the spirit gum to keep his mask in place, then checks his phone again. Another ten minutes have passed.

_It's fine. Jason will be fine. There's still time to get back._

He's finding it a bit nerve-wracking, being Jason's anchor; knowing that right now he's the only one able to call back his mind if it meanders into self-destructive obsession. It constantly lingers on the edge of his mind that he can't keep this up forever.

Eventually Jason will be beyond his reach if they don't get the diviners back. And even if—_when_—they get them back, will Tim be able to just resume the way things were before?

He grips the edge of the counter beside the shower, forcing himself to breathe. He can't let himself go there.

_Table that problem until after Jason's safe._

He straightens up and heads for the holding cell, where he finds Eros sitting cross-legged on his cot, wings out and hands wrapped around one of the edges of a painting Tim brought from upstairs. Insubstantial golden threads collect around his fingers and the canvas, like a spider's web, but pulsing.

After several moments, the glow disappears, and Eros cracks an eye open. "Will wonders never cease—you let me finish this time."

"You're not leaving bodily fluids this time," Tim retorts, and hurries to cut off whatever smart-ass comment is imminent. "We may have found the person who took your bow and arrows. We're not a hundred percent sure, but it's looking that way."

Eros tosses the painting to one side, eyes gleaming. "That's excellent news! Who was it?"

"Her name's Carrie Cutter."

"Never heard of her," Eros says immediately.

Tim sighs, and brings up the holographic screen of his arm-computer; it projects a three-dimensional image of Cutter's military file. A thin-faced woman with auburn hair and green eyes.

Eros blinks and then points a finger. "Hey! Clingy Redhead!"

_Well, now that we have a definite connection…_

"She also goes by Cupid," Tim says, half-expecting to get another rant on appropriating the names of ancient Greek mythological figures.

Instead, Eros snorts and says, "Well, she's welcome to the name, but I want my shit back."

"How did she even manage to steal them from you to begin with?"

"I was _really_ stoned?"

"You're _sure_ that's all?" Tim presses. "There's no way she could have had help from a god or someone who knows a lot about gods?"

Eros scratches his chin. "Well, I mean, anything's possible."

Tim rolls his eyes.

"Who in your family has a grudge against you?"

"Do you want the alphabetical or chronological list?"

"True. You've ticked off a lot of people in the past. From what I've read, things don't really turn out all that well for the people you _help_."

"I take offense to that!" Eros complains. "Any time I've genuinely joined souls fated to be together, there's been nothing but happiness. The only time my matches have gotten twisted is when some divine prima donna gets their perizoma in a bunch and interferes."

The look he's giving Tim is oddly accusing.

"Which brings us back to there probably being a god involved in all this. It would help to know which one."

"There are usually signs, if you look hard enough for them."

"What exactly do you think we're trying to do?"

"No, I mean…" Eros folds his arms, thoughtful. "Every Olympian—every god that I've ever heard of, anyway—has a signature. Something they're drawn to, habits that don't just vanish over the centuries. Symbols they're drawn to, whether they notice it or not."

"We would have noticed something like that in the crime reports by now."

"Maybe, maybe not. It might be completely obscure. Like I said, we don't always notice when we do it. If you find anything even resembling a pattern, let me know what it is. I might recognize it."

"You didn't recognize it when you were getting robbed."

"I—was—_stoned_—!"

_And that's as far as we're getting with _that_ avenue._

Tim glances at his phone again; there's still time. "Going back over everything again and trying to find symbols that might _possibly_ be related? It might take longer than we have—I'm on a deadline here."

"You could always just summon this Cupid woman."

"If it were that easy, the government would have figured out how to do it ages ago. She's trained specifically to avoid detection. There's a reason we only found traces of her days after she's been in a given location."

"I don't mean just pick up the phone and call her or satellite stalk her or whatever you capes do," Eros dismisses, "I mean use the summoning spell for my bow and arrows."

Silence rings.

_I…did not just hear what I think I heard, did I?_

Tim counts to ten. Twice. And then does it in Cantonese for good measure.

"I lose you there somewhere, pretty boy?"

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Tim replies, expounding far more concentration that he should be keeping his voice level. "You just arbitrarily decide, 'hey, you look sufficiently frustrated, so now I'll come up with some pearl of wisdom I could have shared earlier', don't you?"

"Screw you, bird boy, I don't make the rules!" Eros spits. "I'm not a Magic Eight Ball, here to answer you whenever you humans come a-knockin'. Do you have any idea how much trouble that caused way back when?" Eros adopts a falsetto. "_Oh, high-crowned goddess of love, woe is me, I'm a rich and spoiled daddy's boy and can't get no respect! Please steal the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world for me! Oh, most feared goddess of retribution, the boy I like rejected me, so after I kill myself, make him fall in love with his reflection so he starves to death while feasting on the sight of himself!"_ Eros shoots Tim an irritated glare. "You really think _we_ came up with that crap? Trust me, things were a hell of a lot worse when we just up and did everything for you. And _then_, when you hairless apes realized we weren't giving you everything you wanted anymore, you stopped paying tribute to us and jumped on the hobo carpenter bandwagon."

"I'm Jewish," Tim replies, unimpressed with the tangent.

"Yeah, well, so was he. Anyway. Do you know how many Olympians have wasted away when people stopped believing in them? Point it, we had to get used to holding back. Give a human the answers without them having to work for it, and you get Hiroshima."

"Fine, whatever," Tim growls. "How do we summon the bow and arrow."

"Weren't you listening? A spell."

"We're not big on magic around here."

"Tough noogies. Do you want to know what to do, or not?"

"Get on with it."

"Right. So first, you need a rose—"

"Now I _know_ you're messing with me."

"Roses are my symbol, asshat, and they act as an instrument of grounding when channeling my will," Eros snaps, causing Tim to hold his hands up in surrender. "Right, so get a rose and sharpen its stem to a point. Get Helmet Head and join hands with him, and he has to say—"

"Hold on. Go back—Red Hood has to be here for this?" Tim interrupts. He's not sure that's a good idea, considering the circumstances.

"Of course he has to be there, he's the key to making the spell work." Eros says slowly, like he's talking to someone intellectually slow. "He's the one who desires you most in the world, which is a powerful spell component. And he's the only one in the world right now that has my blood running in his veins. Since I can't be let out of this glass cage of yours, he's the only other choice."

Tim rubs his temples; of the two options, Jason is better than letting Eros free. "And naturally there's blood involved…"

"All magic has a price," Eros agrees. "Now, you have to get him to speak these words—" He grabs one of the nearby magazines and a pen, then scrawls something on the cover, "—and then you have to pierce both your palms with the rose. Wait until the blood stops flowing, and then use what falls in place to mark my symbol in the earth."

He shoves the magazine through the hatch in the wall, and Tim frowns at the note. "This doesn't look like Greek."

"It's not. More proto-Greek. Close to what the Minoans spoke."

"The problem here being that no one knows what the Minoans spoke, least of all us."

"Tall, Dark and Angry can read it. Consider it a perk of being infected with my blood."

"Maybe the only one," Tim mutters.

"Once the spell is complete, it will act as a beacon or magnet that draws the diviners to the symbol. And thus, the one wielding them, wherever they are."

"No offense, but this is ridiculous. It's like something out of an episode of _Charmed_."

"For your sake I hope you're talking about the original and not the remake," Eros sniffs.

"If you always had this spell in your back pocket, why didn't you cast it when you realized your bow and arrows were missing?"

Eros' expression becomes cold marble again. "The one who desired me most in the world is gone, remember?"

Tim frowns. "You're the _god of love_. You could get anyone to desire you."

"It doesn't work like that, darlin'," Eros smiles bitterly. "There's a special kind of person for that to work, to activate the power of my blood. Someone with pure conviction, and that's a rare trait to find. By the time I might track down someone like that…well, let's just say it's lucky for everyone that your brawny boytoy got tagged, because he's got it."

Tim can't really argue with that, because Jason has conviction in spades. Even years later, he has never wavered in his dedication to his own version of Bruce's mission, even if it's at odds with what Batman stands for. He has no qualms about crossing lines if he must, and still believes himself to be in the right.

"Okay, fine, I'll give you that," he allows grudgingly. "But that still leaves the problem of taking out Cutter herself. She's no slouch, considering her training, and I doubt she's going to want to give up her new toys without a fight."

"What a shame you don't know a bunch of people who regularly dress up in spandex and deal with this kind of thing all the time," Eros drawls.

Tim rolls his eyes and wanders away and keys in Batman's call sign to his comm. He knows Bruce isn't going to like any of this, but he might be able to offer some perspective.

"B? You busy?"

"No." The voice crackles in his ear. "Returning to Gotham now; I'm just over the Atlantic."

"Find anything?"

"Yes. Your information on Cupid helped."

"So did any other customer see her?" Tim asks.

"I don't know. The coffeeshop has been shut down."

Tim blinks, going over that information once more in his head. "What? _Why_?"

"Potential health concerns. Within the past week, three people fell into comas while visiting the shop," Batman informs him. "There's concern in the city of a possible outbreak."

"That…wasn't in any of my research."

"The authorities only shut it down today, and the shop hasn't been named in the media."

"Then how did knowing about Cupid help?"

"I tracked down the barista. She remembered her."

"So, she was definitely there," Tim says, breathing out in relief. Finally, something.

"Yes. And when I went to examine the scene, I found something on the bottom of a cup."

"A…cup."

"Yes. If there were an actual contagion spreading from the shop, chances are it would be passed via utensils or dishes." Batman pauses, and then grants, "It took a while."

"So what did you find?"

"A _Svefnthorn_."

"A _what?"_

"An Asgardian formula to sink someone into a deep sleep. It's their version of Stygian Sleep, but it wouldn't work permanently on an Olympian. Different magic, different rules. But it would be strong enough to put something like Eros enough of a stupor that he wouldn't notice the theft of his diviners."

"And not many people would know that," Tim muses.

"No."

"I don't know about you, B, but I'm leaning more and more toward the idea that Cupid's got a god backing her."

Tim gives a quick explanation of his conversation with Eros, as well as his method to track the bow and arrow.

"Convenient of him to mention it now," Batman remarks in a neutral tone.

"That's what I figured."

"I don't like it."

"Figured that, too. Any way of checking it out again with Wonder Woman?"

"She hasn't gotten back to me yet."

"It's been a few days. That's not like her."

"Unfortunately it's impossible to maintain reliable communication with Themyscira."

"I'll ask Wonder Girl if she has any ideas. But in the meantime, we should still try the spell."

"Wait until I return. We'll decide how to make our move then. We need to be prepared—you can't go into this blind."

"Okay," Tim agrees, even though he doesn't want to wait longer than he must. "See you when you get back."

"Acknowl—"

Bruce's comm suddenly cuts off, and Barbara's voice snaps in his ear, "Red Robin, get back to Red Hood _now_."

Tim's heart leaps into his throat. "What happened? Is he okay? He's supposed to be sleeping—"

"Well, he woke up. I was able to keep him on the line for about fifteen minutes before he stopped responding."

Tim stumbles as he runs toward the garage. "Is he—?"

"He's still putting out bio-signals. I sent Jeeves and Robin to check on him, but you need to be here yesterday."

"On my way."

For the second time in two days, Tim is racing toward the Batcave, a pit in his stomach.

_I'm a moron. I shouldn't have been away for so long. I should have called Bruce when I was already on the way, I should have just asked Eros questions without reacting, like I was _trained_ to do, instead of bitching at him about a stupid spell. Get in, get the information, move on._

When he arrives at the manor, Alfred isn't there to greet him, which sends alarm bells ringing in his mind. Taking the steps to the second floor two at a time, he doesn't pause until he passes the bathroom outside of Bruce's study.

Alfred is leaning over Damian, cleaning and dressing a bloody wound on the boy's head.

"What the hell happened?" he demands, more breathless than he should be.

"Language, Master Timothy," Alfred chides, unflappable as always. When Damian swears as he presses an alcohol swab to the wound, he adds, "And you too, Master Damian. I would rather this not need actual stitches."

"I'll live," Damian snaps, jerking his head out of Alfred's reach and glaring at Tim. "Todd's losing it. He was becoming unruly again and Pennyworth and attempted to help him. Then he threw an alarm clock at me."

"And you didn't dodge it?" Tim cries, hurrying off.

"I—I was attempting to shield Pennyworth from taking the brunt of it to the face!" Damian shouts after him, but Tim doesn't dwell on something he would normally tease the boy about.

_N_ow that he knows there's nothing major, he needs to get to his room.

Tim returns to find Jason sitting on the floor in his room, pressing himself into the wall the same way he was doing with the holding cell. His fingers are in his hair, tugging at the strands in agitation; his entire scalp and forehead an angry red at the irritation and he's knocking his head against the wall just shy of the force needed for a concussion.

Tim practically vaults over his bed to crouch in front of Jason, grabbing his hands away from his hair. He notices they're bleeding, hangnails and dry skin picked and scratched open.

"Jason…Jason, I'm here. I'm sorry." Jason's expression loses some of its distant, frantic mania. "I had to speak to Eros. I really thought you'd still be asleep when I got back." He swallows back the nauseous feeling creeping up his throat. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry. Why didn't you call me?"

Jason blinks a few more times, clutching back at Tim's hands as though to ground himself; it takes a bit before clarity returns to his eyes.

"I knew you were coming back," he says shakily. "I mean…I did. But I didn't? I couldn't stop thinking you weren't coming back. Even though I knew…" He trails off, gives a manic chuckle. "I mean, fuck, this is your room. This is your house, obviously you'd be coming back, but…" This time Tim can't tell if the sound is meant to be a bitter laugh or choked sob. "I'm going crazy here, babybird."

Cold, angry fury suffuses Tim's body at how broken he sounds. At the fact that Jason Todd—the Robin he idolized, the one that's always had to duck life's hardest curveballs, the one that makes the hard decisions, who is supposed to be strong and fierce and good—is being reduced to this. Right before Tim's eyes.

He's vulnerable right now not because he actually trusts Tim, but because something is making him. Something is turning him into a victim.

At which point Tim makes a decision.

"Come on."

"What?"

"We're getting out of here," Tim insists, trying to tug Jason to his feet.

"Uh, that's probably one of your worse ideas," the other man replies cautiously, resisting the pull. "I'll be fine. I mean, you're here now."

Tim's heart clenches.

"Yeah. Right _now_ I'm here." What happens the next time he leaves though? But seeing Jason's reluctance, he sighs. "Okay, Jason, it's your choice. We'll stay here until B gets here. Should be a few hours still. You can recover, and then we'll all go together."

"Where?"

"I might have a way to get the bow and arrows. Tonight," Tim explains. "B wants to wait until he gets here for back-up, but—"

Jason stumbles to his feet, practically dragging Tim up with him. "No way. Let's go. Right now."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said, and I'm not waiting another minute if I don't have to!" Jason snaps.

"But he was right, we probably _will_ need back-up."

"I've got all the back-up I need," Jason insists, tugging Tim close by the shoulder, "Now come on, I need to get my helmet."

**⁂**

Tim, paranoid freak that he is, isn't keen on busting in on Cupid just the two of them and without an actual plan. Despite Jason's confidence that they could easily take out someone like Carrie Cutter together, mystical weapons or not (and hell, _he's_ got mystical weapons too, if it comes down to it), Tim insists on being _responsible_ and summons whatever Bats are still in the city to coordinate an actual impromptu sting.

Damian is already in the cave when they arrive, changing into his uniform. Jason grins at him. "No hard feelings about nearly braining you, right?"

"_Tt_. I look forward to you regaining all your faculties," the kid retorts. "It will make beating you within an inch of your life that much more satisfying."

"Geeze, kid, you could just say you're going to kill me. Fewer words."

"Master Damian has already reached his weekly allotment of death threats," Alfred remarks in a mild voice as he checks a line of tranquilizer rifles. "Any further instances and he will not be permitted to visit with Master Jonathan this weekend."

Damian bristles at the word 'permitted' but doesn't argue beyond a mutinous scowl.

Jason whistles appreciatively, both at the implicit power Alfred has over the kid (and let's face it, the entire family), and the collection of sedatives laid out on the table. The concentrations range from human-sized targets to someone of Wonder Woman's constitution. Since there's no way of knowing whether Cupid intends to show up alone or with her divine ringer, Tim maintained that it was better to be safer than sorry.

Jason is eager to get out, tired of waiting and antsy. His skin itches, which has been a symptom ever since this whole infection thing began. As he rubs at his neck, he tries not to feel like he's being pulled in a million different directions. He wants so many things right now—a fight where he doesn't have to hold back, a cold shower, to sleep for eight hours, to run his fingers through Tim's hair—

Jason shakes himself.

At least one of those things is imminent, so he decides to focus on that.

Finding Carrie Cutter and taking her out. Getting Eros' diviners so he can get himself back to his normal level of screwed-up. Leaving Gotham in his rear-view long enough that he won't have trouble looking anyone in the eye for a wile.

That he won't have trouble looking _Tim_ in the eye for a while.

The cave seems less claustrophobic this time around.

Jason attributes that to the fact he's not locked in a giant glass box like a creature at a zoo. Also, the conspicuous lack of looming disapproval that is Bruce Wayne.

"Remember, Jason—non-lethal," Tim says as Jason they both go through the routine gear and weapons' check before suiting up.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason replies, reaching around Tim to grab a few extra flash grenades. He doesn't _need_ to draw his arm along the length of Tim's shoulders, or lean into him a half second longer than acceptable, but it's a small comfort after his recent attack of paranoia. "Not like B would have left anything capable of doing actual lasting damage, since my stuff's been sitting out here nice and open the past few days."

"Lethal and doing lasting damage are two different things."

"Not in B's mind."

"He knows there'd be no point to removing or tampering with your things. You have enough caches around Gotham to replace anything he might take."

Jason shoots him a suspicious glance. "And how do _you_ know that?"

Tim smirks at him, and Jason's heart stutters.

That expression's been turned on him before, but usually he's just done something to piss the other vigilante off. This time, it's almost conspiratorial, like he and Jason are in on the same joke.

And holy hell, that should not be as hot to him as it is.

_Eros' blood. Supernatural roofie. I wouldn't think so under normal circumstances._

But a niggling thought at the back of his head thinks that even once he gets cured, his mind is going to go directly back to that if Tim ever turns that look on him again.

The sound of tires squealing against stone and metal grating echo in the cave, and everyone looks up to watch Batgirl peel in the cave on her bike.

"Hey guys," Blondie says, dismounting her bike and grinning at them. "I heard we were throwing ourselves headfirst into trouble?"

"That's not what I said," Tim mutters from his spot at the computer, scrolling rapidly through several different satellite images of Gotham.

"It's what I heard." She turns her gaze on Jason, surveying him with pursed lips. "Why is the homicidal maniac out of his cage?"

"Steph!"

"I'm not a maniac," Jason informs her.

"I notice you don't argue the homicidal part."

"I don't lie about important stuff. Unlike some people in this room."

"Everyone in this cave lies for a living."

"Not me. You're the ones who are so concerned about secret identities. I died, remember?"

"Who here hasn't?"

"Not you, from what I hear."

"Six minutes dead is still dead."

"Try six months."

"Try almost a year and a half," Damian cuts in.

"Is this really the time to play Who-Was-Dead-Longest game?" Tim asks, shooting an exasperated look in their direction. Jason's pretty sure it's mostly directed at Blondie, but he still feels a measure of guilt.

"It's really not," Dick's voice carries down the stairs from the upper level. He dismounts, cape flowing behind them and fixes them with a disapproving look. "And if you can't get along, we're not doing this tonight. We're already down manpower since Cass is still in Hong Kong and Babs has Duke en route to Greece."

"Greece?" Tim turns away from the computer, confused.

Debating for a moment whether it's something he wants to share or not, Jason decides to fill everyone else in on what Barbara told him.

Tim's expression becomes dark. "I'm liking this entire situation less and less with every passing hour."

"Tell me about it," Dick sighs. "I still think we should wait. This is an op we shouldn't run without Batman."

"You're already here," Tim points out.

Dick frowns at him. "Very funny. You know what I mean."

"Screw that," Jason interrupts. "I'm not waiting for him to drift on in here. He won't get here for hours and I want this done _now_."

"We have to do something," Tim agrees. "Not just because of what's going on with Jason, but the longer Cupid's out there, the more likely she's continuing her murder spree."

"Planet don't stop spinning just because B isn't in Gotham. People all over the world gotta do shit without relying on him to show up. I know _I've_ learned not to hold my breath."

"Jason!" Dick and Tim chorus, shooting him disapproving looks.

"That attitude is why you will ever be the disgrace," Damian sniffs. "I agree with Richard. This is a bad idea."

"You're right. You should stay here," Tim says.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, Drake!"

The kid looks about two seconds away from stomping his foot.

"He's messing with you, Dami. If he didn't need you, you wouldn't be here," Blondie offers.

The kid scowls. "I do not need you to coddle me, Brown. I am aware of Drake's methods, basic as they are."

"We don't know the timeframe we're working with," Tim goes on, getting up from his place at the computer and approaching Dick with a mulish expression. "Jason could be fine for the next five hours until B gets here, or he could progress to the next stage of the infection. Despite monitoring his symptoms, there doesn't seem to be a standard rate of mental decay, and that's thrown off by outside factors anyway. We still don't know what all-out succumbing to this could look like."

"And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to," Jason adds.

"Also, let's not forget who was advocating using Stygian Sleep the last time Jason's condition declined sharply."

Dick shoots Tim a betrayed look. "Excuse me for not wanting to watch my brother rip himself to pieces in front of me."

"No, you'd rather send my soul directly to Hell, or Hades, or wherever," Jason deadpans. "'Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200'."

"That's not how it works!"

"Oh, sorry—_temporarily_ send my soul directly to Hell, or Hades, or wherever. There's a distinction. Excuse _me_ if I'm more confident with Tim's idea."

"You don't get a vote; you'd be confident about anything Drake proposed, even if it involved a Box-and-Stick Trap."

"Would not," Jason mutters, although he thinks if anyone could make something as obvious as that work, it would probably be Tim. "I'm confident about Tim because since this whole thing's started, he's done the most to help me through it, instead of keeping me locked in a box."

"You _wanted_ to be locked up!" Dick protests.

"Before _Tim_ figured out, I didn't _need_ to be, as long as he was around!"

"Wait, what?" Steph asks, looking between the two. "This part I missed."

"And he did that even after all the shit I've put him through, which is more than I can say for—"

"Don't accuse anyone here of not trying to help you," Dick snaps. "Damian and I have been spending overtime on patrol all week trying to track Cupid. Duke is on his way to _Greece_ right now to follow a lead that might have nothing to do with any of this just because you and Babs have a _theory_. Even Steph's put all her cases on hold to be here tonight."

Jason pauses, somewhat caught off guard because he hadn't known that bit of information. Then he crosses his arms defensively. "Yeah, well, I didn't ask her to. Blondie doesn't even like me—barely _knows_ me."

"Since when does that matter in this Family you giant idiot?" she grumbles.

"Jay, you'd be less surprised about everyone willing to help you if you didn't try to keep yourself apart from everyone all the time," Dick concludes with a sigh. "That's at least one silver lining to all this. You're finally letting someone in—even if it's just Tim right now."

He reaches out to clap a hand on Tim's shoulder.

"Hey! Hands off!" Jason snarls, shoving Dick away and pulling Tim toward him. It's not done violently or in a manner meant to hurt him, but this time Tim does go stiff in his arms. The three other vigilantes immediately move like they're about to spread out around them, expressions as a serious as if they need to diffuse a bomb.

Jason's wits return, and he quickly releases his hold on the smaller man. "Sorry."

Blondie looks between the two of them, mouth gaping a bit. "Damn. They weren't kidding. That's one hell of a one-eighty you pulled there, Hood."

"Personally, I preferred him trying to kill Drake instead of trying to grope him."

"Damian!" several voices protest, but the kid looks unrepentant.

"Dick, just _listen_ to me," Tim implores, cheeks flushed with obvious embarrassment over the situation. "I have a plan."

The man in the cowl continues to look wary, but they've all worked with Tim long enough to respect his strategies. Eventually, he relaxes and nods, indicating he's listening.

Tim starts to outline everything, starting with finding a suitable location. Summoning Cupid to the Cave isn't going to happen since they can't compromise its location, and they can't be too close to the city either. If Roy's stories are anything to go by, Carrie Cutter has never been choosy when it comes to collateral damage.

"And if what Eros is saying is true, gods are like that but with more firepower," Tim says. "We still don't know who's backing Cupid."

"Feathers had no idea?"

"Apparently the list of people he's pissed off starts with us and goes around the block twice."

"I'm so surprised."

Tim has chosen a strategically promising position that will be empty at this time of night, with enough natural cover that they can easily stay out of sight until needed. The downside is it's worryingly close to the part of Robinson Park that Poison Ivy's claimed as her own.

"I don't like it," Dick says. "First of all, any situation involving a magic spell is a risk. And anything that draws Ivy's attention while we're doing this could go badly for us."

"On the contrary, I'm pretty sure it would work out. We know better than to cause intentional harm to the flora in the area; Cupid doesn't. And since when she fights, she doesn't care what she destroys, she's more likely to draw Poison Ivy's attention than we are."

"Or Ivy could be in one of those moods where she decides she hates men and the only one who makes it out alive is Blondie," Jason points out.

"I'm okay with that," she pipes up helpfully.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Ivy likes me. We have an understanding."

"I call bullshit," Jason shoots back.

"No, really. I calculate a high probability that if she sees me there, she'll focus her attention on what she considers to be the greatest threat to her plants, giving all of us a chance to retreat if necessary."

"Oh yeah? And what gives you that certainty?"

"Well, she kissed me and I'm not dead," Tim says. "Considering the number of people she's left for dead that way, I'd calculate favourable odds for us…Jason? Are you okay?"

"I'll kill her," Jason growls, a visceral rage suddenly suffusing his entire body. "If she comes anywhere near you, I'm going to string her up with her own vines and feed her pesticides until she rots."

There's a heavy silence, and everyone is staring at him, once again like a rabid animal about to spring. Jason blinks, running over his last words, and shakes his head, feeling suddenly dizzy and drained.

"Sorry," he says. "That came out of nowhere." He tries to explain it to Tim. "I just—"

"No, uh…it's fine."

Jason scowls. "I could learn to hate that word."

"Me too," Dick says darkly. "If you can't control yourself in the field, maybe you should stay here."

"Not happening," he insists, at the same time Tim cries, "No!"

"Tim, come on, you just saw—"

"If we leave him here alone and locked up, he could hurt himself if we're gone for a long time. Besides, my plan calls for _all_ of us and the chances of success diminish exponentially with fewer people."

"Then we'll call in Selina, or Kate, or Helena or—"

"On holiday in Austria, temporarily out of commission, undercover," Tim rattles off.

"Then call in the Titans—"

"They still wouldn't get here right away and then we might as well wait for B," Tim snaps. "Dick, we've been standing here arguing for ten minutes and look what he's done to his hands." He reaches over and grabs hold of Jason's right hand, holding it up to show the bloody mess of picked and scratched skin.

_Damn it. I didn't even realize I was doing that._

The immediacy of the sight at least seems to finally convince Dick of Tim's argument, because his shoulders slump and he says, "Tell me the rest of your plan."

"We've already got the element of surprise working for us. Cupid doesn't know we're tracking her, and even if she does, she wouldn't be expecting us to have help from Eros. So, since we'll have chosen the field of engagement we just need set a trap in advance." Tim digs into his bandolier and brandishes several disk-shaped objects. "Electromagnetic field generators. We'll set them up and then remotely activate them. Once she's caged in that, it should knock her out and then we get the diviners back."

"Sounds simple enough, but when you know as well as I do our plans never stay simple." Dick points out.

"That's what contingencies are for. I figure in addition to that, we position ourselves at these four points—" Tim brings up a holographic map of Robinson Park, "—which are far enough away to avoid being seen, but close enough to reach the cage in a hurry should the charge not be enough to knock her out."

"How exactly do you plan to lure her to the ambush zone without her getting wise?"

"From what Eros implied, she'll be drawn to the place where we perform the summoning. If we set the cage up in advance and hide the sensors, she won't notice until it's too late."

"If she's got a god or whatever helping her, thing probably aren't going to be so easy," Jason points out. "Chances are she'll be able to get out of the cage herself."

"Either way, the field has to be deactivated to dose her. Nothing solid can penetrate the force field. Someone has to be ready the minute it starts to deactivate—either on its own or if she does somehow managed to disrupt it. As soon as the electromagnetic field is down, _she_ gets put down."

"I volunteer for the putting down bit."

"No," Dick says. "You're still compromised, Jason, for all we know your reaction time could be as well. It's bad enough we're considering taking you along."

"_Considering_?" Jason sneers. "Like I'm giving you a choice. Besides, I'm the best shot here. Gimme one of those nifty tranq guns and she's down."

"Yeah, because we're going to trust you to shoot straight with those hands," Blondie interrupts, eyes lingering on Jason's still shaking hands.

"I've had worse."

"Yeah? And when you accidentally hit one of us?"

"I'll take my chances."

"And if you miss, there goes the element of surprise."

"Brown has a point."

"Aw, Dami, I never knew you cared."

"I will administer the sedative," Damian goes on. "I'm faster than any of you."

"No. I'll do it," Dick decides. "I won't risk Cupid knowing about any of you being involved unless something goes wrong. Based on her past behavior, her obsessive nature could make you her next targets."

"Better us than some civilian!"

"I said no, Damian."

The boy makes an annoyed noise, but by some small wonder doesn't argue.

"We'll go scope out the area," Dick continues. "Tim and Jason will go pick up whatever they need for their…summoning thing."

"Oh, very assertive," Jason drawls. "All that's missing is the voice."

Twenty minutes later, Batman and Robin take off in the Batmobile, with Steph following on her bike. Alfred takes up his position in front of the Batcomputer to coordinate with Oracle.

Tim and Jason linger together in front of the motorcycle bay.

"Are you okay to get there on your own?" Tim asks him.

"Honestly, I don't know," Jason replies. "I could try."

Tim's eyes flit to his hands, and Jason does the same. They're not shaking right now, but the streaks of blood from scraping at his nails is visible. In theory, a trip to Robinson Park shouldn't take very long at this time of night, but accounting for road closures or accidents or any number of delays…

_Time's of the essence, and we don't have time for me to show up there needing to be talked out of a manic episode. _

Tim appears to be on the same wavelength.

"Let's not risk it," he decides and indicates the red bike parked in its bay. "You'll just have to ride with me."

Jason won't lie to himself.

His brain hears that sentence a very different way, and he's assaulted by a startlingly clear mental image involving himself and Tim and a physically impossible position on the back of the bike.

Tim appears to realize exactly where his mind just went because he flushes so dark it matches his uniform. "No! Not that—you know that's not what I—!"

"Right—course not," Jason agrees quickly. "I wasn't—" He clears his throat, avoids Tim's gaze and mutters, "Anyway, probably not a good idea. Takin' the bike, I mean."

Because one of them will end up pressed up against the other, and Jason would probably cause an accident whether he was driving or not.

"Redbird it is," Tim says tightly, and heads deeper into the garage to find the car.

Jason spends far too much time watching him walk away, and then shakes his head, disgusted with himself. Clearly he's graduating from the point where Tim's mere presence is enough to keep him on track.

_We'd better find this Cupid chick tonight, or the next few days are going to get interesting. And not in a good way._

⁂⁂⁂

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	9. IX

"Just going to put this out there, but if breaking into a flower shop is your idea of a first date, it might explain your lack of game," Jason remarks. Tim glares up from the rear door where he's disabling the building's paltry security system. The other man sniggers, the sound echoing through the vocal modulator of his helmet. "Too soon?"

"You're an ass," Tim informs him, clipping a wire to ensure there will be no outgoing calls to the alarm company.

Jason is still chuckling as he picks the lock to get them in. He'd complained when Tim insisted on no unnecessary smashing of their way into some innocent owner's shop. Thankfully, he'd also yielded with an uncharacteristic lack of fight.

_Vigilantes cause enough property damage fighting the villain of the week, we're not going to send some poor guy's insurance premiums up because the Red Hood wants to kick in a door. _

"How come you never broke into a flower shop for me?" Steph wants to know, voice crackling across the comms.

"That ship sailed when you hit me in the face with a brick," Tim mutters as he and Jason slip through the rear entrance and begin looking around.

"Hold a grudge much?"

"Looks like the roses are back here," Jason says, shining a flashlight into a cold storage display. "Think the color affects the spell?"

"Everything about this is cliché already, so I'm guessing it has to be red," Tim deadpans, digging into his belt for a few bills to pay for their break-in and theft. Meanwhile, Jason reaches into the display and removes a bunch of red roses.

"Gotta say, this is easier than the usual job. Kind of lackluster."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Feeling cheated? I could queue up the _Mission Impossible_ soundtrack for you on my phone."

"More like _Beauty and the Beast_, given the situation." Jason considers and then snorts, "Actually, definitely like _Beauty and the Beast_. You know that story was actually based on our annoying feathered friend?"

"Seriously?"

"Yep. In the original version of the myth, an oracle tells this girl Psyche she's destined to marry 'a monster that neither god nor mortal can resist.'"

"Eros."

"Bingo." Jason pauses, seeming to remember where they are, and then clears his throat, holding up the flora. "So, we good? Ready to channel your inner Zatara?"

"Only if I can be Zatanna."

They leave the shop.

"Go for it. I've met that cousin of hers. He's a douche."

Tim laughs out loud. It's not anything he hasn't heard before—or agreed with.

The comms crackle then, bringing him back to present.

"Are you flirting?" Steph asks, sounding amused and awed. "Oh my god, you are. This is totally you flirting with each other, isn't it?"

"We're not flirting," Tim grumbles, looking away from Jason, pulling his cowl down a little lower to hide his warming cheeks. He had completely forgotten about the open commlink.

"I'm flirting," Jason confirms without shame. "But I'm allowed. I have a note."

"You are both embarrassments," Damian disdains.

"I think it's cute," Steph coos. "I know it's temporary and all, but we should give them a ship name."

"A _what_?"

"A name for their relationship. A portmanteau. All the celebs do it. Like Kimye. And technically Tim _is_ a celebrity, so—"

**"**Keep the comms clear," Dick growls, attempting to mimic the Batman voice, but there's a tightness to it that screams discomfort. "And no names in the field."

"Spoilsport."

"Aw, are we makin' you blush, Dickhead?" Jason jeers. "I thought _you_ out of everyone would appreciate a good flirt…"

"Not when it involves my brothers. Magically induced feelings or not, I don't need a play-by-play…"

"Consider this repayment for all the times I walked in on you and Kori at the Tower," Tim says easily.

Dick groans. "You really _did_ grow up mean."

Jason roars with laughter.

"This surprises you?" Damian interjects. "He had a hit list of potential threats with all of us on it."

Jason whistles. "Seriously? Babybird, I'm impressed! Also, annoyed—how am _I _the only one that gets labeled the bad one?"

"Because you don't understand the meaning of subtle."

"Careful, Robin, that _almost_ sounded like a compliment."

"Can we just get out of here?" Tim mumbles, ears still burning a bit.

It's not like he' was _trying_ to flirt or lead Jason on in any way. It just seems like treating this enforced dynamic lightly, trying to find some humor in things, makes everything seem a little less…terrible.

And okay, maybe he's kind of enjoying the fact their recent interactions are lacking their usual bite. When he was a kid, he dreamed about befriending Robin; after Jason died and even after he resurrected, that became something impossible.

But this, even in the backdrop of a horrible situation, it's like getting a taste of that.

_Which is dangerous, since it's not going to last._

No matter how tightly Jason holds Tim's hand as they speed toward Robinson Park, or continues to watch him as they park Redbird under camouflage nearby. He can't know for sure, but he suspects that under the helmet, Jason may be smiling at him.

Like he's his favorite person in the world.

_But that's why Eros said he was the one who had to do that, right? _

It still sucks.

"Everyone in position?" Dick's voice crackles over the comm line. "Batman – north quadrant."

"Robin – south quadrant. This is still a bad idea."

"Most of our ideas are bad ones. Batgirl – east quadrant."

"Red and Red at the drop point," Tim says, scanning the open glade they've chosen. "We've got the west quadrant once we set the trap."

He crouches down on the ground and sets to work.

"You really think an electric cage is gonna be enough?" Jason asks as he loiters beside Tim, twirling the rose between thumb and forefinger. "Considering her talents avoiding capture, Carrie Cutter probably knows how to get out of a trap."

"Which is why we distract her and knock her out as soon as we confirm she has the diviners," Tim reminds him as he finishes placing the electromagnetic field generators in the ground. Rather than dig up the earth, he hides them beneath debris and branches.

"Which is why _you_ distract her, and _I_ knock her out," Dick reminds over the comms. "You two are to get clear of the area as soon as the spell is done."

"Father would not approve of us relying on spells."

"Luckily B's not here," Jason replies, using a knife to sharpen the rose's stem to a point. "Now what?"

"Eros said we have to join hands, and then you have to say this—" Tim digs into his belt and passes the ripped magazine cover, "—apparently it invokes the words of Eros. I can't read it, but he said you could."

Jason takes the page.

"How the hell would I know how to—oh."

"I guess the same way you were speaking ancient Macedonian?"

"Looks like."

"Anytime now, imbeciles," Damian snaps in their ear. "The sooner this foolish plan fails, the sooner I can say 'I told you so' and return home."

"Sounds like the toddler's gettin' cranky," Jason snorts. "Must be past his bedtime."

"At least he's being optimistic," Steph points out. "Assuming we're getting back home and all."

"Once again you've displayed your tendencies towards selective hearing, _Fatgirl_, I said _I_ intend to return home, not that I expected you to do the same."

"Charming," Tim drawls.

"Damian's right," Dick interrupts. "Let's get this over with."

There's a moment of fumbling where Tim grabs the rose so that Jason can use one hand to hold the incantation and take hold of Tim's with his other.

Tim stares down at their joined hands, Jason's on top of his; he notes the collection of scars on the backs of his knuckles. Knuckles his face has been intimately acquainted with in the past—

"Here goes," Jason mutters, brandishing the invocation. When he next speaks, it's in a language Tim has never heard before, as incomprehensible as what he was saying the other day when he nodded off during the movie.

And yet it still sends shivers down Tim's spine.

The rose glows with golden light and then flies out of his hand to hover in the air above them.

"What's next?"

"He said something about palms together, so—"

They readjust their hands.

"No, wait, yours should be on top," Jason suggests. "Minimize the chance of you getting in on this oh-so-fun obsession thing."

"Yeah, hard pass…"

As soon as their hands are horizontal over the ground, the rose gives a pulse of energy and then shoots downward, piercing fully through both their hands.

"Motherfucker!" Jason shouts.

Like Tim, it's probably only years of training that keeps them from jerking their hands away from each other with the rose _still piercing them. _

"What happened?" Dick demands.

"We're embracing a new career as human pincushions," Jason snarls.

"He didn't tell me what was going to happen," Tim says through gritted teeth; the pain is nothing compared to what any of them have been through, but it still makes his stomach twist like he wants to throw up.

Blood wells around the stem of the rose, sliding around their hands and dripping onto the ground. They stay completely still, waiting for the flow to drip to an end and then stop completely.

In that instant, the rose vanishes like nitrocellulose paper, freeing their hands. Jason shakes his hand, still cursing as he studies the wound, while Tim kneels in the dirt to etch the symbol of Eros into the ground.

There's a golden shimmer against the grass, and then—

Nothing.

Tim won't lie, he sort of expected more smoke and explosions or some indication that something magical was about to happen.

From the way Jason's head tilts to one side, he expected the same. "Now what?"

"Now we wait, I guess. She's human, it's not like she's going to teleport here I guess."

"She _has_ been taking the slow route so far…"

"Take advantage of it," Dick orders. "Get to cover."

"And no making out," Steph says cheerfully. "No one wants to hear sucking noises."

"Seriously, Batgirl?"

"Why would you _say_ that?" Damian sounds scandalized.

"Muting our comms then. Wouldn't want to offend your _delicate_ sensibilities," Jason says, tapping the side of his helmet. There is a chorus of complaints and disgusted groans in the background. A beat later, his shoulders tense like he's wincing and he glances at Tim, head ducked down. "Sorry. That made it sound like—"

"No, they're being jerks," Tim says as he mutes his own comms. "Let them stew."

Jason's mischievous, conspiratorial laugh is entirely worth the flack Tim knows he's going to get from Dick later.

They retreat to their designated spot, crouching down to await the supposed arrival of their query.

"I was sort of expecting us to be struck by lightning or something," Jason admits after several minutes, drumming his fingers against his thigh in a quick and nervous rhythm. His other hand keeps reaching for the catch of his helmet, then jerking back downward, like he's fighting the impulse to pull it off. Whether to tear at his hair or scrape at the skin of his neck, Tim isn't sure, but either compulsion worries him.

He's been good so far tonight, ever since they all got their marching orders, but now that he's sitting still, he's clearly without a distraction.

Tim stretches across the small distance between them and takes his hand in his.

"Struck by lightning, huh?" Tim says, swallowing against the awkwardness. He can feel Jason's eyes on him from beneath the helmet. "Looking to defect to the Allen family?"

"Well, red _is_ my color," Jason jokes tensely, then shrugs. "Actually, I was thinking in terms of the gods. It happened a lot in all the myths, where if you pissed someone off Zeus would fry you with a bolt of lightning. Or, you know, Hera would trick some poor girl to ask to see Zeus's in all his immortal glory and then she'd get fried." He snorts. "Almost all the myths basically boil down to trouble started because Zeus couldn't keep it in his pants."

"Clearly," Tim mutters. "Guess Flash and Kid Flash were lucky they got powers instead of dead. Somehow the Big-Pile-Of-Dust doesn't have the same charm as Scarlet Speedster."

Things go quiet again.

Out in the open, there's still no sign of Carrie Cutter. Tim wonders if maybe this whole thing really is just Eros having fun at their expense.

_Oh well. Even if it all turns out to be a bust, this is keeping Jason's mind occupied. Better than anything we could do for him locked up in the manor…_

"I'm glad it was you I was working with at the time, and not Grayson or the bat brat," Jason says suddenly.

"Why's that?" Tim asks absently.

"Because you're not family."

Tim tries not to react. He's had punches to the gut that hurt less than that.

_It's pretty much what I figured, but still…_

"At least not the way they are," Jason continues, oblivious to Tim's reaction. "Nightwing wasn't around much when I was a kid, but it was like having an older brother in college or something, right? Anytime I picked up the phone to bitch about the old man, he'd take the call."

Tim swallows, needing a beat to ensure his voice doesn't sound heavy, and ventures, "Did you…do that often?"

He's not sure how to take the older man's sudden candidness.

"More than you'd think. Not the first year—he still wasn't that real to me before then, just a name I kept getting compared to. Also, he was always fighting with B, or treating me like his replacement."

"Imagine that," Tim says wryly.

"What, you thought you were the only one to get the cold shoulder?"

"His cold shoulder didn't involve causing permanent scarring."

Jason winces. "Fair."

"Forget it. I told you before, water under the bridge," Tim dismisses. "How'd you end up making good with N, back then?"

"I ran away. Tried to make it on my own because B was being…you know. Shit went down and I came back to the manor, and then Dickiebird showed up and told me about how _he _ran away shortly after B took him in."

Tim blinks. "I never knew that."

"Must've been before you took up your stalking hobby," Jason says, and Tim can hear the grin in his words. "After that, he was more real to me. And he tried to actually _be_ there. Except when he was off-planet." He pauses for a moment, thoughtful, and Tim remembers that that's where Nightwing was when Jason was making plans to go to Ethiopia. "And then with the brat—we come from the same place. Mothers sold us out, don't play well with others, never really had a childhood…trying to toe B's stupid line when we know it's never gonna work…"

"You _don't_ know that."

"Agree to disagree, Timbers. The point is, with those two, I get it. They're family, even if I don't want them to be. But you—"

Tim's shoulders slump. "Not damaged enough?"

"Bullshit, you're plenty damaged. You _chose_ this shit, and there's a special kind of insanity in that." That should be an insult, but Jason's tone is admiring. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm relieved. That I'm fixating on you and not—look, I couldn't take the incest guilt on top of losing my mind. It's one less thing to hate myself about."

There's a lot to unpack there, Tim thinks, especially that bit about Jason hating himself. He opens his mouth to say something about it, but then Dick's voice growls, "We've got company. Everyone stay sharp."

_Looks like we'll have to table things until later…_

A motorcycle speeds into the park, the growl of the motor shattering the otherwise quiet night. The woman upon it, clad in green combat gear and without a mask or even a helmet over her bright red hair, practically leaps off the bike without stopping, letting it skid to one side.

Her eyes are wild, and her arms snap out in front of her in an oddly zombiesque. Tim understands the reason for the latter when he takes note of the wrist-mounted crossbows on both hands.

_Ten to one those are Eros' diviners. _

Cutter marches straight up the sigil, which shimmers and vanishes, and she stops, looking around.

Tim's finger hovers over his wrist computer, waiting with bated breath as she edges closer and closer to the trap.

"Come on," Jason murmurs under his breath, attention fixed on that as well.

"Where is he?" Cutter growls and Tim is surprised at how rough her voice is compared to the way she's sounded in various interrogation videos he'd used for research. "This is _his_ blood, so where is the brat?"

She finally takes the final step and Tim engages the cage.

Fingers of electrical energy spring to life around her, creating a contained dome around Cutter. She snarls, trying to jump backward, but the forcefield keeps her immobile. She can't even move her arms.

Across the clearing, Dick materializes from the shadows in silence.

"Be careful, Batman," Tim cautions in a low voice. "The electric field was supposed to knock her out."

"If you really thought it would be that easy, you haven't been doing this long enough," Jason murmurs.

Tim ignores that. "The field will keep her from shooting you while she's in there, but the minute I deactivate it, she'll try something. Get her disarmed first."

"It's like you think this is my first time," Dick mumbles before he growls out his imitation of Bruce, "Carrie Cutter. You made a mistake coming to Gotham."

The woman's slightly manic expression freezes on her face and then smooths into something predatory. "Oh, I see. So, _you're_ the Batman. I have to say, I'm underwhelmed."

Dick remains silent, and Jason snorts, leaning in a little too close to Tim to murmur, "Wonder how hard it is for him right now not to make a joke."

Tim grins.

"Your murder spree ends tonight," Batman says. "If you cooperate, it will go better for you."

"Isn't that what every guy says?" Cutter purrs. "What if I like it a bit rough?"

"It's up to you. You're getting arrested either way, but if you work with me, I can ensure a lighter sentence."

Tim can practically hear Jason grinding his teeth at that. He nudges him.

_ Now's not the time for a rant about Red Hood's brand of justice…_

"That's awful accommodating for the Big Bat. I must have something you want," the woman muses, shifting as she continues to test the bounds of the forcefield. She glances down at the ground and then snorts. "You're working with Eros. The little brat wants his toys back, doesn't he?"

_Damn. So much for surprise. _

"And if you give them up without bloodshed, we can figure out a deal."

Her expression becomes pinched. "What makes you think I care about deals?"

"Because without making one, you wouldn't have been able to steal those in the first place." He gets closer until he's looming over her. "Tell me who helped you steal the diviners. If I know who it is, I can protect you from them better."

"Protect me," she repeats. "What makes you think I need protection?"

"I already have intel that says the only ones who know about the diviners and how to wield them would have to be Olympians or beings of similar nature. They don't tend to be the most altruistic—or forgiving."

"Well, you have a point there," Carrie agrees with a smirk, and Tim suddenly has a _really_ bad feeling about this. "But then, I knew what I was getting into when I struck my little bargain."

"We can help you," Batman insists. "You don't have to be alone in this, Carrie."

"Now see," she purrs, "your mistake is thinking I came here without their help." Her eyes burn a bright, unnatural red, and her entire body begins to glow. "Or that we mind a bit of bloodshed."

⁂

"Well, _that_, wasn't in her files," Tim remarks lightly, in a mild voice that tries not to betray the 'oh shit we're screwed' sentiment of the moment.

"I'm not usually one for negotiations, but I think that means they failed," Jason remarks.

"Your grasp of the obvious is impeccable!" Damian sneers across the comms.

Jason can't help blink as Cutter seems to draw into herself, her back rounding and arms tucked in before she emits a wordless growl. She shoves her hand right up and through the electric cage holding her—and wraps it around Batman's throat faster than he can avoid it.

_I know she's enhanced and all, but something tells me she's not usually that fast!_

Sparks sizzle and fly as the cage around her shorts out, and she lifts Batman over her head.

_Or strong. _

Freed from the cage, Cutter pulls back her left arm, priming the miniature crossbow on it. Jason doesn't hesitate—he's got his guns out and takes two shots in rapid succession, hitting both her wrists directly where the devices are attached.

Cutter curses as they fall to the ground, dropping Batman, who immediately tries to reach for the discarded diviners. A steel-toed boot to the chest and more force than should be possible stops him, leaving him momentarily winded on the ground.

"Converge!" Tim orders. "Don't let her pick up those weapons again!"

"No, I thought we'd let her have them, she seems so reasonable!" Steph snarks, but is already dashing from her hiding spot.

"Hood—get the diviners while she's distracted!"

"Easier said than done, Red!"

Steph reaches Cutter first, lunging forward with a right hook that is neatly evaded. Cutter grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her downward, kneeing her in the face. As Steph stumbles back, trying to shake off the blow, Cutter backhands her.

Dick is back on his feet, kicking out with a roundhouse that Cutter ducks before grabbing hold of him again. Undeterred, he headbutts her and this time it's Cutter that staggers back, reeling enough for a front-kick that nearly downs her.

"Stay down, Carrie," he growls.

"It's cute you think that's going to happen," she laughs. The timber of the sound doesn't seem quite right for some reason.

As she rallies, she aims a kick to Tim's face when he tries to get close enough to grab the diviners, forcing him to bend backward. Jason snarls, whipping a knife at her face in retaliation, which she catches and lobs back at him, forcing him to bend backward to avoid it.

As reaches for a gun, Steph recovers, trying for a downward chop to Cutter's blind spot. However, the redhead rallies, manages to get an arm around her neck and hold Steph up, choking her in the crook of her elbow.

"Go on and take the shot, warrior," Cutter taunts.

_Goddamnit—she knows I can't._

Normally he would, but his hands aren't exactly steady today. Beyond that, he gets the sense that training or not, Cutter is a lot faster right now than she should be.

Damian materializes behind her and tries to clothesline her, but this fails as she whips around and punches him in the solar plexus, making him lurch backward.

"I never liked children..."

Dick's attempted right hook fails, too. Cutter twists around and knees him in the jaw, all while Steph continues to struggle against the chokehold. Her arms slap uselessly against her adversary, who still has the strength to punch the still rallying Batman so hard he flies backward several yards, forcing Tim to duck out of the way or be bowled over.

_Damn it. She's taking them out too fast, there's no opening to get the diviners. _

Cutter throws Batgirl over her shoulder and into the ground, hard. Steph doesn't move, and Cutter makes another attempt to pick up the diviners.

His line of sight clear now, Jason fires several rounds, targeting her joints, but somehow, she avoids them all.

"That…should not be possible."

Jason knows his marksmanship capabilities, and unless she's got precognition, she shouldn't be able to avoid being hit.

_Definitely faster than human. Either that, or she's got tougher skin than expected and just isn't bleeding._

As he pauses to reload, Red Robin creeps up behind her, once more trying to get his hands on one of the abandoned crossbows. Cutter spots him, grabs him by the folds of his cape and sends him flying straight at Jason, who's forced to stop shooting and catch him.

"You okay?"

"Fine—let me up."

Jason hesitates a minute.

_Even with the body armor, he's way too small…_

"Hood!"

"Right—yeah," Jason shakes his head, forcing himself to remember the fact _they're in the middle of a fight_.

Several yards away, Damian darts back again, this time with a sword that Jason's sure he's not supposed to have with him. He swings in an underhand arc at her unguarded back, but she whirls around, diverts the blow by catching and pushing away the hilt. Robin is already twisting his body around, trying to aim a downward swipe to her abdomen—and she bends back to avoid it with ease. He makes a third attempt, slices the blade overhead again, and she dodges it by inches, the steel passing harmlessly over her. He doesn't get a fourth shot, as this time she grabs hold of his hands where they grip the sword and throws him away from her, sword and all. The blade slips from his hands as he skids to the ground, rolling several times in the dirt.

Tim's sprinting forward again, bo staff at the ready, but Cutter is ready to catch him, neatly avoiding his attempt to shatter her collarbone with the staff. Still, he turns, using the momentum to follow through, shoving the staff backward to hit her abdomen. Before it can connect, her hands fasten around the staff, and she tries to pull him forward. Red Robin evades her hold the first time, freeing his staff and comes back around with an overhand swing from the right, but Cutter dodges, shoving a palm at his sternum and sending him flying into Batman.

With Tim clear once again, Jason lets loose another volley of gunfire, stalking forward. His accuracy improves the closer he gets—he can see her clothing shred in places as the bullets glance by. She seems to notice this too, because then she's bending forward and kicking out, foot under Batgirl and sending her directly into Jason's path, forcing him to drop his weapons and catch the other vigilante.

"Oof! Did you gain weight?"

"Rude. You didn't say that to Red Robin."

"He doesn't have your ass."

"He _wishes_ he had my ass," she replies, pushing off Jason and crawling off to the side.

"You're _both_ asses," Tim grunts across the comms.

"Once again you state the obvious," Damian puffs. He's recovered by now, sword back in hand, and is unsuccessfully trying to swipe Cutter's knees from underneath her. Somehow Cutter manages to slip beneath his guard and kick him in the chest, forcing him into the same heap where Steph and Jason are struggling to their feet.

Tim gets up again, dashes forward to jab with his bo that Cutter continues to avoid. He rolls it over his wrist, changes his grip like he's holding a baseball bat and tries to sweep her legs out from under her. She avoids that and neatly moves to one side as the energizer bunny that is Damian returns to the fray.

Instantly, the two birds take up positions on either side of her, Robin slicing downward, forcing her to jump again, while Red Robin attempts to knock her out from above.

Somehow, Cutter's body appears to scissor, and she executes a complicates midair flip that twists her almost horizontally between the two swinging blades.

_Holy shit, it's like _Raiders of the Lost Ark_…_

As she lands, the guys move in sync to hit her with their weapons, but she fastens her hands around theirs and with seemingly no effort, spins and throws them off in a whirl of counterclockwise motion. They land close to Steph and Jason, and Cutter is left holding the bo and sword, which she curls her lip at in disgust, and launches them into the air with unnatural force.

Her eyes flit over them, narrowed in suspicion, before she suddenly whirls around to find Batman—and a well-placed right hook—waiting for her.

She falls hard to the ground, barely able to brace herself on the heels of her hands.

"It's over, Carrie," he says coolly.

She blinks guilelessly up at him and then smiles coldly. "'_Flowers of this purple dye_'."

Dick's mouth turns downward in confusion, but Jason feels like something's just jolted his brain.

"'_Hit with Cupid's archery_'," he murmurs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steph asks.

"Batman, watch out—!"

Cutter swings her left leg out, hobbling Batman at the knees; as he moves in the air to regain his balance, Cutter gets hold of the nearest crossbow and stabs one of the tiny arrows into Batman's thigh, somehow with enough strength to burrow past all the body armor.

"No!" Red Robin shouts as Dick groans in pain.

"_Sink in apple of his eye," _Cutter singsongs, "when his _hate_ he doth espy!" Then she laughs and in a harsh language that resembles the one Jason used to summon her, _"Hate them, Batman. Throw caution to the wind and kill them all."_

The arrow vanishes into stardust and Dick's entire frame goes tense. Then, he slowly turns his head towards them. His mouth curls into a horrible smile, and beneath the lenses of his mask, Jason sees an unnatural red gleam.

"I'm guessing that was one of the lead tipped ones," Tim murmurs.

"Yeah…that's a complication," Jason replies, stomach sinking.

Which is an understatement.

Dick Grayson is a force of nature on a good day—well on par with Bruce in terms of skill, maybe even better in other aspects. And Jason's tangled with him a few times, both when he's been in his right mind and with the human decency brainwashed out of him.

Neither one's good.

Add the danger Dick poses to a murderous psychopath with the untold backing of an unknown god, and Jason will be really surprised if they make it out of this one alive.

"Hood," Red Robin begins, both question and warning.

"I've got him," Jason murmurs. "You guys deal with her."

Cutter is priming the wrist-crossbow again, only for one of Robin's incoming Batarang to knock it free.

"Oh, you've got me, do you, Little Wing?" Dick taunts, stepping forward. "Always with the overconfidence. That'll get you killed. Again."

"Right—because I haven't heard _that_ one a million times before."

Dick winds up an overhand punch toward Jason's head, which he ducks, and continues with a flurry of blows that Jason's only just able to stumble back from.

"I always forget you're fast like a freak," he mutters, regaining his stance and throwing himself back at Dick. When the older man continues to avoid the assault, Jason tries to take him out at the knees instead.

Several yards away, the other Bats have surrounded Cutter and are trying to coordinate taking her down.

"Who are you?" Steph demands. "There's no way you're just Carrie Cutter in there."

"Smart girl," she purrs. "I hate smart girls."

She tries to jam a knife hidden in her gauntlet in her face, but Steph ducks; Tim and Damian dive forward to pick up the slack.

"I'm surprised you're not asking me if it's really me in here," Dick sneers at Jason, drawing his attention once again. "Or trying to convince me this 'isn't me'." He kicks his heel to Jason's chest, knocking him back. "Appeal to my better self?"

"You forgettin', Dickhead?" Jason pants. "I'm the only one that knows you don't _have_ a better self. Just a pretty-boy smile and a horseshoe up your ass." He jumps to his feet. "Been telling everyone for years that you're just a tool. This is just confirmation."

"Keep telling yourself that," Dick grunts, going for an overhead roundhouse, and when that doesn't work, aiming low. As Jason staggers back, Dick slices at him with a Batarang, penetrating the thick material of his gear and sending a spray of blood into the air.

In the background, the fight with Cutter doesn't appear to be going any better.

"Was Carrie Cutter aware you were going to take over her body?" Tim demands of Cutter. "Or did you trick her?"

"As if there was anything to trick—we have an arrangement. And luckily, we both like raising a little hell!" She sends both Tim and Steph flying backward and then gets a hold of Damian as he swoops in from behind. "Wanna see how much?"

And she's got one of the diviners in her hands again, ready to bring down an arrow on the kid's head.

_Ensorcelled demon-brat is _not_ something we need right now!_

Jason barely thinks, throws himself forward and rolls beneath Dick's grasping gauntlet, skidding across the grass and dirt to knock Damian out of the way. Cutter's weapon is still on a downward trajectory, and there's no time to grab anything to block it.

But he doesn't need to.

Without true thought or intent, the pulsing energy of the All-Blades simmers into being, manifesting in his hands and topping Cutter's arrowhead inches before it hits him. There's a small wave of impact that separates them, but judging from Cutter's expression, that's not what puts her off guard.

She stares at the blades a beat, before the red flashes in her eyes again.

"_All-Caste_," she snarls.

Jason smirks. "Yeah, I'm not just a pretty face."

"You're about to have _no_ face!"

They disengage, but not before Cutter manages to grab hold on her crossbows. Before their eyes, they vanish, transforming into twin double-edged blades, one gold and one black.

"Something you want to share with the class, Hood?" Damian asks, spinning his own sword in his wrist.

"Not now. Go help the others deal with Batman," Jason orders.

"You're outmatched—"

"We're all outmatched if you don't stop your mentor over there, now go!"

He and Cutter cross blades, sparks and energy flying before they disengage to circle one another.

"Tt." But the kid darts off to where Steph and Tim are already flanking Dick defensively. "Apologies in advance, Richard. I'll make it quicker than the last time."

"Keep overestimating your abilities, brat," Dick sneers in a voice he never uses on Damian. "You don't even know how much I hold back with you."

"I could say the same thing to you," Cutter tells Jason as they circle one another. "You really think this is a wise decision, boy?"

"I really think you look nervous," Jason counters.

Cutter hisses, but there's something uncertain in her eye.

"Not hard, I guess," he continues, flipping out of the way of an attempted jab. "You're as nuts as Arsenal said. You know Arsenal, right? Green Arrow's protégé? He said _GA said_ you were a delusional hot mess."

The red in Cutter's eyes flicker to green and back.

"Knew you were in there," Jason goes on. "So, Carrie—was it _you_ that sliced that kid's throat, or your mystery passenger? Because you're a lot of things—crazy being one of 'em—but you've never killed kids."

She falters for just a minute, and red glow vanishes.

At the same time, the blades in Jason's flicker in and out of existence.

Crazy doesn't mean evil—and when she's not being possessed, clearly the All-Blades don't consider Carrie Cutter to have gone completely dark side.

Cutter's eyes dart to the blades, then back to Jason's face, and she snaps her head forward, butting him hard enough he's forced to let go of her.

In his periphery, Damian makes an angry noise and throws himself forward, earnings a broken nose for his trouble. Dick launches himself at Tim, who feints to one side and crouches down on his knees, turning and throwing two metallic disks at the older man. Electric beams crackle to life, only to die as Dick flings two Batarangs into them, destroying them in a fizzle of electricity and smoke.

"Look at this—the unwanted family screw-ups, getting along," Dick mocks.

"Don't pay attention to him, Robin," Steph orders. "He knows what pushes your buttons."

"Trying to be the Team Mom, Batgirl?" Dick taunts. "If you wanted that job, you shouldn't have given up your own brat."

"Batgirl—!" Tim warns, but Steph is already moving.

She vaults over Tim, who hasn't gotten to his feet yet and somersaults in midair, heel coming down on Dick and knocking him into the ground. It downs him for a moment, but when she follows up with a left hook, Dick catches it and twists.

Everyone hears the snap of bone and Steph's pained cry before Dick tosses her to one side. Tim hurries to check her.

"Uh-oh," Cutter whispers, manic gleam in her eye once more replaced with glowing red. "Looks like things aren't going too well over there."

"Better than how things are going for you," Jason replies, calling up his blades again.

Damian is taking a run at Dick, sliding between the older man's wide stance and slicing the sharp edges of his gauntlets at Dick's ankles, injuring the places not covered by armor. Dick goes down on his knees, and Damian is up, knocking him hard across the back of the head. But Dick jerks his head to one side, dodging the blow, and then reaches with his right arm to drag Damian over his shoulder and shoving him down on his back on the ground.

Winded, Damian struggles to breathe, and Dick draws back his hand like he's about to crush the kid's skull against the dirt. But then throws himself at him, knocking Dick away and the two of them roll to the ground.

There's a brief tussle, and then Dick is on top of Tim, pinning his arms to his sides with his thighs. As Damian sails forward with a kick to the head, his arm snaps out, catching him and flipping the boy upside down. Then, laughing, he leans forward, forearm on Tim's throat like he's trying to crush it.

Jason's concentration shatters. "No!"

_Tim's in trouble! _

He's already turning to go help, All-Blades vanishing, when he chokes, staring at the golden sword that suddenly protrudes from his abdomen.

⁂⁂⁂

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	10. X

The blade sticks out of Jason's chest, gleaming unnaturally in the moonlight.

"You were saying?" Cutter purrs.

Somehow, her voice reaches Tim even where he's pinned, sending a cold chill of dismay surging through his body. He would scream Jason's name if it weren't for the unyielding chokehold Dick has him in.

While Tim's gasping for air, Jason's attention doesn't appear to be on the weapon that may have just killed him. From the subtle way his body is straining toward Tim whose attempts to push Dick off of him grow weaker, he seems more preoccupied with Tim than his own predicament.

"Juh…"

His attempts to speak use up valuable air and Tim curses mentally as his vision blurs. He thinks a blood vessel may have burst in his eye.

"What was that, Timmy?" Batman sneers. "Sounds like something's caught in your throat."

_Great. Even when he's gone dark side, he's got to make bad jokes. _

Tim tries to keep calm, to control his limited airflow, and think of a way out of this situation. Every beat of his heart feels like it's jarring his body. And Jason, the poor idiot, keeps trying to inch toward Tim.

_Jason, concentrate, she's about to kill you, or worse!_

Tim is distantly cognizant that Damian is still struggling against the way Dick has dangled him, trying to escape. He can hear the shift of leather and Kevlar as Steph struggles to get up.

"I have to say, I was impressed," Cutter continues, spindly fingers digging into his shoulder as she twists the sword until Jason's attention on Tim falters. His snarl of pain echoes through the voice modulator but to Tim's relief, it doesn't sound wet in a way that would indicate internal bleeding. "Just thinking of all the discord you could cause if those blades of yours were just…a little…_corrupted_…"

She punctuates each pause with a twist of the blade, and how the hell is Jason not bleeding out right now?

_Maybe it's my imagination…oxygen deprivation…come on, focus! She's got him with a golden sword—golden arrow? So probably not trying to kill him. And he's not poisoned with lead the way Dick was which…should be a good thing? Right?_

Unless it requires a command to work like the arrow Cutter stabbed Dick with. Tim's having a hard time coming up with scenarios for the golden diviner, but he thinks that's more oxygen deprivation than lack of imagination.

Tim shifts beneath the anchor that is Batman, trying to worm his fingers toward the taser trigger in his suit. The way Dick is crowding against him, any charge that goes through him will hit Tim—and Damian—too, so he must be careful of the wattage. Not enough to parboil them all, but enough to allow him some give.

He hopes that because he's expecting it, he'll be able to withstand a second or two long enough to get free and get to Jason.

"Hey! Bat-dick!"

Looks like there's some luck on his side, at least, as Steph, still a bit off-balance, chucks a handful of senbon-like projectiles at him. At the same time, Damian bends upward and wraps himself around Dick's arm while jamming a knife into the part of his arm not protected by armor. "This one I am _not_ apologizing for!"

"I think what you mean is, 'sorry not sorry!'" Steph follows up with a swipe of her fist.

Dick snarls, jerks to one side to avoid Steph's attack, while at the same time flinging the boy off and away from him. Steph grunts in pain as Robin lands on her.

The minute decrease in pressure gives Tim the space he needs to activate the taser. It throws Dick backward with a surge of electricity, which leaves Tim momentarily stunned and gasping against the same pulse.

There's movement beside Tim, Steph crawling over to his side. "You okay?"

"Been better," he replies, shaking off the dizziness as he gets to his feet.

"Aren't you two adorable," Dick growls, recovered now and stalking toward them. Tim tries to put himself in front of Steph, knowing that her injury will provide too tempting a target, but she snorts and stands beside him.

"Stubborn much?"

"Take a look in the mirror sometime."

"You two are wasting time," Damian growls and runs headlong at Dick, skidding low to take his feet out from beneath him.

Dick somersaults in the air to avoid him, lands on his feet in front of Steph, who's already winding up a punch. Dick lifts off with one foot, twists in the air, knocking the punch off course with his feet and smacking Tim in the face before he can get close. As Steph's body finishes the botched move, bending double, Dick continues to spin in midair, rolling over her back and flips a knife into his hand, grabs hold of Damian's cape to wrap around his head, and then plunges the knife downward to pin him to the ground by the material.

Then he's up and swiping at Tim with another blade, while Tim blocks and dodges out of the way of the wild blows. Seeing an opening, he bends forward and shoulders the older man, hard enough that he turns and faces Steph and her wild swing to the side of his head. Dick ducks, blocks, uses her momentum to flip her to the ground, stomps hard on her gut to leave her gasping, and turns around in time to bob from side to side to avoid Tim's next onslaught.

Tim leaves himself open, and Dick turns his back, elbowing him in the face from behind.

"You want to know why I fired you?" Dick sneers at Tim, gripping him close. "It wasn't because Damian needed Robin." He pulls Tim's arm over his shoulder and flips him over his back; without letting go, he unleashes a flurry of kicks to the small of his back. "It was because you were _never_ meant to have the title."

As Tim lists, Dick kicks his heel into his chest.

"Right—because I'm going to listen to anything you say right now," Tim grunts, fumbling a moment before skidding back on his feet. He forcibly ignores the long-dormant doubts trying to surface in response to his brother's diatribe, flings out several small explosives as Dick renews his attack, dodging nimbly between the bursts.

"You've always been the weakest—better suited to being behind a computer than in the field." He throws a handful of Batarangs at Tim, who crosses his arms in front of his face to block them; two of them get embedded in his upper arm. "And you're still mediocre at that compared to someone like Oracle."

"_Everyone's_ mediocre compared to Oracle."

"Keep telling yourself, if it makes you feel better about yourself. Not like you've got much else." Dick catches hold of him, presses the metal deeper through flesh and muscle, making cry out. "Bruce never wanted you. Not as Robin."

Tim falters a bit at that, if only because he _knows_ that's true. He lived that himself.

It's enough of a pause for Dick to take advantage.

"Not as a son." More pressure, and Tim grits his teeth. "He adopted you out of _pity_. Because he wanted to protect his secret." Dick tugs one of the blades loose, turning it in his hand to set it beneath Tim's chin. "You'll never measure up to my legacy. Hell, you can't even live up to the Robin that _died_!"

"No!" Jason croaks, trying to take another step forward, but kept frozen in place.

"For one of the _All-Caste's _chosen, you appear oddly preoccupied with a mere mortal boy," Cutter muses. "And look what that's already cost you."

"Lady, you have _no_ idea," Jason spits through gritted teeth.

"No need to fret, though. Such affection…it will soon be directed to me instead. That way, it won't even hurt when Batman crushes his throat." She stands on tiptoes, mouth near the side of Jason's helmet. "Now—devote your love to me. Be useful to me and serve my needs. Kill them all as a gift to me."

She pulls back and for an instant, it seems like the golden sword has duplicated—one is in her hand, the other still stuck in Jason's abdomen. But the latter vanishes, flickering out of existence the same as the dart that downed Dick.

Somehow, there's no blood spreading across Jason's abdomen, or even a hint of a gaping wound. He claws at his gut in surprise.

Meanwhile, as Dick goes to swipe the blade across Tim's throat, his arm is hauled back, and he is levered to the ground.

Damian stands in his place, cape gone and a furious flush in his cheeks.

"Back off," he orders. "I won't have Drake's death on your conscience, however useless he is."

"Thanks…" Tim wheezes as he tries to recover. "Really feeling the love."

"You're not fooling anyone with that act, little brother," Dick tells Damian with an unkind smile. "All your talk about emotions and weakness, and all your League training—and you're as soft as any other kid."

"_I am not a child_!"

"Whatever you are, you still bleed."

There's a burst of gunfire, causing everyone to duck reflexively, except for Dick. Whether out of reflex, or thanks to the thickness of his mask, he avoids the rounds that skim just past his cheek, leaving red welt of burned flesh in its wake.

"Funny," Jason growls, from behind clenched teeth it sounds like. "I was going to say the same about you."

Cutter watches him, wide mouth curling into a cold smile.

Dick shifts his body, accommodating for a possible new enemy. "Are you going to try to kill me now, Little Wing?"

Jason takes another step forward, raising mismatched guns, and takes a shot.

"No!" Steph cries even as Dick throws himself out of the path of the shot.

A second later, Tim notices the weapon Red Hood is leveling at Dick isn't one of his custom pistoles—it's one of the tranquilizer guns from the cave. In the same instant, Jason's whipped around and fired a volley at Cutter, who shrieks and dodges out of the way.

"What?" Cutter demands.

_I'll second that…_

"How…?"

"Alright, babybird?" Jason calls, edging back toward Tim, still firing on Cutter who persists in evading.

"How are you still…?"

"I'm just that good."

"That's impossible!" Cutter snarls, recovering. "The winged brat himself is powerless against the golden—! How did you—?" She takes note of Jason's protective stance in front of Tim, and her expression becomes sharp. "Unless…"

She doesn't finish her thought, instead shakes her head.

"No matter. If you won't serve me as the Bat does, you'll die beside your beloved!"

She charges and vaults through the air, bringing down her swords upon Jason's head—and just as before, out of nowhere, there's a burst of golden flame that solidifies into swords in Jason's hands, catching the diviners.

"Help Todd," Damian orders Tim. "Otherwise the moron will become distracted and get stabbed again."

"We've got this," Steph agrees.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, bat bitch, you sure?" Dick taunts.

Tim can almost hear Steph's knuckles crack as she forms a fist. "Oh, I'm _so_ getting my second wind."

"Just remember he's not himself," Tim reminds her.

"No promises."

"I have alerted Pennyworth," Damian interjects in. "Presumably he will arrive before anyone dies."

"You hope," Tim mutters, already hurrying to Jason's side to take a position against Cutter. "Any chance you can lend me one of those magic swords?"

"Sorry, Red, they're sort of soul-coded."

"Of course they are," Tim sighs, bringing out his spare bo-staff and clicking the button to elongate it. "You're explaining that at some point."

"Help me take this broad down and it's a date."

"Stop flirting!" Steph shouts as she holds of Dick's incoming fists onehanded. She's using what Tim recognizes as several modified Wing Chun techniques. They're suited to taking down a normal thug, but right now it just barely allows her to hold her own against Batman. The only thing keeping him from targeting her injured arm is Damian, who has taken his sword back up and levies a savage assault on their older brother that Dick is forced to block.

Meanwhile, Jason and Tim dart toward Cutter, Jason in front and Tim flanking. Her blade arcs to meet him in an overhand swing, the force of it knocking Jason back even as Tim takes position behind her and strikes downward to her shoulder.

She spins and catches it with her other sword, stabbing forward with the first; Tim jerks back as Jason rallies and slices toward her; she catches that, sweeping down low to knock Tim odd his feet, and as she uncoils meets Jason's blade with sparks, the momentum of the blow throwing him to the ground.

"I'm getting tired of eating dirt," Jason mutters.

"There's got to be a way we can get an opening," Tim agrees, picking himself back up again.

Nearby, Dick grabs Steph, yanks and tosses her over his head, as Damian takes a running jump and launches himself forward. He aims a double kick, which Dick blocks with crossed arms that he uses to shove the boy backward. Damian flips in the air, lands in a lunge, sword still at the ready.

With Jason still on the ground, Tim has to defend when Cutter swings at him, ducking and whipping the staff at her. She twists out of the way in the air, regaining her hold on her swords which come down on Tim. He meets every blow, rapidly shifting his staff to catch the edges.

It works for a bit until one of her blades slices right through.

"Okay. Not just magic, also super sharp," he grunts. "Noted."

Mentally cursing, he adjusts his stance to fight with the remaining staff pieces, arcs them around and aims for her head.

Cutter gets out of the way of one of them, but the other hits her in the face. She falls to one knee, but it's not because she dazed so much as she is trying to pincushion him from below.

Tim jumps back as she lunges forward with an underhanded swing, but Jason is recovered, sliding over and catching them with one of his swords.

"That's it!" Cutter hisses. "Unleash your savage nature and stop me if you dare!"

"Oh, I dare," Jason growls. "You killed a kid, Carrie. The only thing you deserve is savage."

Cutter laughs. "It was a necessary sacrifice."

"I doubt Green Arrow would think that," Jason counters. "He's a bit of a douche, but even he wouldn't be impressed with a child killer."

Cutter growls at this, but her moves slow incrementally.

Tim narrows his eyes in calculation.

_Why would that affect her? Not worried about killing a kid…but worried about the Green Arrow judging her? Actually, now that I think about it, she slowed down before when Jason mentioned Green Arrow. _

Far behind him, Steph launches herself at Dick, aiming a kick at the small of his back; Damian, waiting in the wings, charges forward and launches into his older brother's chest. It's not enough to wind him, given the body armor, but does put him off balance.

Before he can take advantage of it, though, Dick flings a bolo outward. The cables wrap around Damian, knocking him off his feet.

Steph has her nightstick out, uses it to knock Dick straight across the jaw to send him sprawling as well.

"Stay down…bat bitch," she pants.

Jason is still running his mouth.

"I mean, it's one thing trying to off his lady friend, but a kid? That's one of those relationship dealbreakers, I'm thinking."

Cutter narrows her eyes, once again faltering.

Tim decides it's enough evidence to run with his theory.

"There will never be a chance for you two," he speaks up, injecting a taunting note into his voice. "No matter who much power you think you have."

"He won't have a choice!" Cutter snarls. Her eyes flicker, red to green and back. "I'll _make_ him love me, in a way I never could before!"

"Will you really?" Jason asks. "Or is that just what your secret god friend _told_ you you'd do? Because you've spent an awful lot of time everywhere else but tracking down the Green Arrow."

"Yeah, Star City's about 2500 miles _that_ way. You could have been there a week ago, with the diviners, if you hadn't gotten sidetracked by—who's plan was it?"

"You…are beneath…her," Cutter replies through gritted teeth.

"'Her?'" Tim echoes. "Well, that's a help." He pretends to consider it. "Although, maybe that's it. Maybe she's not bringing you to make Green Arrow yours because she doesn't think you should be with him?"

"No!" Cutter yells, and her eyes are completely back to green now. The overwhelming sense of presence surrounding her fades and Tim knows that she's suddenly just Carrie Cutter again.

Jason knows too because he's ditched his magic swords and now brandishes a tranq gun, shooting her with it in the back.

Cutter goes rigid, and falls to the ground, only just catching herself on her elbows.

"That should have taken her down," Tim says, dismayed.

"Guess it wasn't enough to take down a god, huh?"

Behind them, Damian slices through the heavy cable holding him prisoner, as Steph readies her own tranquilizer gun to shoot at Dick.

Jason readies the gun to shoot again. "You're done, Carrie. This ends now."

Before he can shoot, though, her wrist lashes out to one side, and—shit, the black sword has reverted to its crossbow form!—trains her weapon on Tim.

"I guarantee I can shoot your boyfriend even if you pull that trigger," she hisses. "And I have a feeling capturing me isn't worth him hating you."

Jason freezes.

"Shoot her!" Tim snaps.

"I…"

Jason's hand shakes.

"No!" Steph yells from behind them, and its reflex to turn towards it.

Dick seizes hold of Steph's bo, twisting it out of her hands and jabs upward, intent to crush her throat with its edge.

Instantly, Damian is there, grabbing hold of the staff to slow it enough that she can move; in doing so, he ends up having to grapple hand to hand with Dick. Steph stumbles and gets a grip on the gun, hesitating a moment, before shooting.

At the exact moment that Dick gets hold of Damian and moves him into the path of the projectile, Jason gives a grunt and he's thrown to one side. When Tim turns back, it's to see Cutter streaking off into the surrounding woods, leaving her bike behind.

"Looks like that dose is a bit too much for the brat," Dick observes distantly.

"He's going into respiratory distress!" Steph yells. She's trying to get to the boy, but Dick is in her path.

Tim and Jason look at each other. They can't risk Cutter getting away—but they can't risk Damian dying. Even though Tim can't read his expression behind the helmet, he knows that they've made the decision together.

Instantly, Tim scrambles over to Damian, while Jason throws himself in Dick's path, his magic swords vanishing into the ether. "You don't want to hurt that kid, Dickhead! Why not try someone your own size?"

Dick growls, teeth gritted, and darts forward, using Steph as a stepping stone to get to Jason. He stomps down hard on her already injured side, in a way that grants him momentum

Before Jason can react, Dick's thighs are wrapped around his neck, twisting him around and using the force of it to throw him to the ground. If it weren't for the reinforced neck hear, Tim's sure Dick would have snapped his neck.

_Can't think about that right now. _

He feels for Damian's pulse and checks the other vitals, while Steph pulls a manual resuscitator from her utility pouch. Even as she fits it over his face and Tim keeps an eye out lest Dick somehow make it over to them, he knows Cutter's already vanished.

"Heart's stopping," he grunts, tense as he tries to calculate in his head how high the tranquilizer dose was and how it's interacting with Damian's body weight.

"Help me get through the body armor," Steph orders.

Tim doesn't have a cast saw on him, or any edged tool that could get through Damian's body armor, but he does have a modified laser he's used to open tricky safe doors before. If he holds it the right distance away, it can get through the armor without burning Damian's skin too badly beneath him.

As he cuts, he tries not to let his attention stray to where Jason, unable to free himself from Dick's hold, digs tear-gas bombs from his belt and smashes them in Dick's face. They don't cause lasting damage considering the thickness of the cowl, but the force is enough to make Dick let up and stagger back with surprise.

Jason crouches to regain his footing, swings a leg out, which Dick avoids, and then jumps up and kicks him in the face, which he doesn't.

Steph is already peeling the armor to the side before Tim's stopped cutting and slaps two portable defibrillator patches on Damian.

"Clear!" she barks, activating the charge.

There's a sizzling sound, and Damian's body bows upward.

Steph begins CPR, while Tim monitors their patient.

Two minutes pass, rife with grunts and curses from the fight behind them. Dick's voice echoes in the background.

"You've always been jealous."

"I'd blame getting whammied by Eros' arrows for the cliché, but you've always had the lame one-liners."

"That why you spent your childhood trying to be me?" he smirks.

"Someone's got an ego—but then, everyone already knew that."

"Still not responding," Tim says through gritted teeth.

"Going to try adrenaline," Steph says. She's got a syringe of epinephrine at the ready, and without ceremony, jams it into the part of Damian's thigh not covered by gear.

As she starts another round of CPR, Jason and Dick continue to trade punches in the background, until Dick somehow gets a hold of Jason and hoists him upward, then twists and throws him face-first onto the ground.

"Come on, Dami!" Steph grunts.

Tim checks his pulse again and frowns. "Still don't like this pulse."

"Plan B then." She's got another syringe now, this time amiodarone. "If you die on me, you little shit…"

Jason grabs a handful of dirt and chucks it in Dicks' face, putting him off-guard for a moment and allowing Jason the time to get to his feet. Then he's running, sliding down to take Dick out at the knees before leaping up with a knife.

"You think it's ego?" Dick asks, edging to one side to avoid it. "Let's look at the evidence then." He captures Jason's descending arm and twists. "You jumped into my costume—" He uses the leverage to put Jason on the ground, "—into _my_ home—" Jason knocks his head backward into Dick's jaw, forcing him to let go, but only long enough for Jason to turn around before Dick grasps him by the throat, "—stole _my_ father,"—He tightens his grip, "_—my _friends—" Jason is forced back and downward, "—_my_ girlfriend."

Bracing himself, Jason slides his arms upward and out to break through Dicks' grip on him, follows up with a palm to his abdomen and staggers to his feet. He barely gives himself a pause before jumping and kicking Dick in the face with both feet, even as it propels him back to the ground.

It barely fazes Dick, who's already stalking back over to him.

"And on top of that, you got yourself killed and turned into a martyr that could do no wrong in everyone's memory. Even when you've fucked up, you get let off with everything."

Jason spits blood on the ground. "I've got stints in jail and Arkham that say different."

"And you should have stayed there," Dick growls.

Jason flips him off, but Dick is there again, grabbing him by the front.

"Monsters like you need to be locked up." He grasps Jason by the throat. "You're just as bad as every piece of shit you ever locked up. Just look at what's going on now." He tightens his grip. "All of this is happening so we can stop you from fucking our brother."

Tim's stomach churns at that.

_Is that what he actually thinks?_

"How messed up is _that_?" Dick mocks, putting himself right into Jason's face.

Jason snarls. "He's—not—my—brother!"

There's a violent flash, as the Red Hood suit panels explode at their highest frequency and send Dick flying several meters away.

He doesn't get up again.

In the same instant, there's a sudden flash of light from overhead as the Batplaneappears out of nowhere, and Damian shoots into a sitting position, gasping and cursing.

For a moment, nobody moves, trying to process everything that's just happened.

Beneath the lenses of his mask, his eyes are wild and he whips his head around, before croaking, "Where's Cutter? Don't tell me you lost her."

Tim snorts as he and Steph fall back from him.

"Typical," he mutters.

⁂

Once Alfred has Dick loaded into the Batplane—heavily sedated lest he wakes up mid-flight—Jason and the rest of the motley Bat crew stumble back to the Batmobile.

"Well, that sucked," Steph mutters.

"The last time we had our collective asses handed to us like that, the Joker tried to throw a dinner party," Jason agrees.

"Ugh, _so_ glad I missed that one."

"Given the fact you are all in sub-optimal condition, I will be the one to drive us home," Damian announces.

"Nice try, demon baby, but I'm driving."

"Father would not be pleased with an _outsider_ driving the Batmobile."

"He'll be less pleased if I let a twelve-year-old drive."

"I'm fourteen!"

"You just got resuscitated. We're not trusting your reflexes."

Damian grumbles mutinously.

"You're just lucky it was your left arm and not your right one Dick totaled," Tim tells her quietly.

"Lucky?" Damian sniffs. "I tol—"

"If you say 'I told you so', I swear to god, I will tranq you again," Jason growls.

"You will not," Tim interjects, "Not after all the trouble we went through to save his life. Which we're still waiting to hear a 'thank you' for, by the way."

"Why should I thank you for letting the perpetrator escape?"

""On the bright side, at least we didn't have to deal with Ivy on top of all that," Steph muses. When Jason and Damian shoot her identical unimpressed looks, she shrugs her uninjured side. "What?"

Batgirl and Robin climb into the car. As the doors close, Damian warns, "Try not to get us killed, Brown. I've seen you drive."

Jason rolls his eyes and follows Tim to the spot where they parked earlier. The younger man is being worryingly silent, but Jason has a feeling he knows what it's about.

_How much I screwed up, probably. _

The redbird tires kick up dirt with the force Tim uses to spin them around and toward the main road. Jason reflexively grips Tim's hand over the gear stick, not out of fear or apprehension, but just reassured at skin contact after their latest ordeal.

Tim apparently doesn't feel the same.

"Damn it, Jay, we're not reenacting the end of _Thelma and Louise_," Tim snaps with a little more bite than usual. "I need my hand to drive."

Jason immediately relinquishes his hold, ignores the spark of hurt and something else that leaps in his stomach as he forces himself to lean toward the passenger side door.

Tim notices and then softens. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to—"

"It's cool," Jason replies quickly, not wanting to seem like it actually bothered him. He pounces on the first thing he can think of to change the subject. "I can't believe you've seen _Thelma and Louise_ but not _Casablanca."_

"What is your obsession with that movie?"

"It's a classic representation of a bygone era in cinematic history."

"And _I'm_ supposed to be the nerd in the family…"

"The toys all over your room would confirm that."

"You mean figurines."

"I rest my case."

They side-eye each other, but Jason can see the way Tim's mouth is twitching like he's trying hard not to smile given the circumstances.

_What I wouldn't give for him to _actually_ smile at me._

The thought isn't as out of left field as earlier in the week; Jason supposes he's just acclimating to the weird stuff Eros' blood is making him say. Tim's pretty good about not taking any of it seriously at least.

"So, I have questions," Tim says after a while, eyes flicking back to the road.

"Starting with who or what the hell is wearing Carrie Cutter as a costume?"

"That—and what's the deal with those swords?"

"Eros did say they could change form into other weapons."

"Not talking about Cupid's swords," Tim grunts, in that same exasperated tone Bruce always uses when he knows Jason's being evasive. "You. Those blades you had came out of nowhere. So I'm guessing that's not part of Eros' infection. You've had access to them for a while."

"They're not exactly something I can whip out in the middle of any fight when things get dicey," Jason defends. "Only works against a certain kind of foe, which don't show up often enough for you bat-stalkers to get a good look at them." He pauses. "Actually, I don't think they even show up on cameras, so it might be that."

"Not answering the question, Jason."

"You're cute when you're mad."

Tim makes a choked sound and his cheeks and neck go red in what Jason expects is frustration, so he takes pity on him.

"It's a long story, okay? None of which I really want to repeat right now," he scowls. _Not telling him they're powered by my soul, something tells me he'll take issue with that. _"All you need to know is they only show up in the presence of true evil."

"True evil," Tim muses. "So, when they disappeared while you were fighting her…?"

"Carrie was back in the driver's seat. And crazy doesn't always mean evil, I guess. Never tested it before." He pauses to think for a minute. "I should really try them out on the Joker some time."

"Magic swords…" Tim shakes his head as they speed over the Kane Memorial Bridge. "Not my area." Then he frowns and shoots Jason a look. "Are they why it didn't work on you?"

"Huh?"

"Her sword. She stabbed you with the gold one, which I figure is analogous to the golden-tipped arrows. It's the same thing she did to Dick with the lead one. But you were immune."

"Thankfully. I don't know what that was, and I wasn't exactly expecting it."

"No shit," Tim says, and suddenly he sounds harsh again. "You weren't expecting anything because you turned around to check on me."

"You were in trouble."

"I had a plan! I _always_ have a plan."

"Yeah, I saw your plan. It involved electrocuting yourself."

"To get Dick off of me."

"That's the worst plan ever."

"Better than you getting stabbed, Jason! If she'd used a normal sword on you instead of the diviners, you could have…" Tim trails off, shakes his head and glares at Jason. "I know you're not exactly firing on all cylinders lately, but that was a really stupid oversight."

Jason opens his mouth to retort, and then pauses as something occurs to him.

Tim's not angry with him, but at himself somehow. Like he thinks it's _his_ fault.

_How the hell did he end up coming to that conclusion?_

"Hey, stop that," he orders. "You can't blame you for this. It's like blaming a girl for being attacked because of the clothes she's wearing."

"This isn't the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

Jason's hand gravitates back to Tim's, resting gently on top as he grips the gear-shift.

They sit in silence for a while, discomfort filling the small space. It's not until they make the turn-off toward the hidden entrance to the Cave that Tim speaks again, taking up their conversation from before.

"Whatever kept you immune is probably down to what Eros did to you."

"Maybe, maybe not. He's not immune himself, remember?"

"Right. She said that, didn't she? I could have to do with your super-secret swords."

"Still not the time to talk about that."

"Fine, fine…back to the fight. Clearly it's possible to hurt her when Carrie's in control instead of whoever's hitched a ride in her body. So how do we keep her in that state long enough to take her down?"

"Other than mentioning Green Arrow? That did _something_."

"We could ask Oliver to make a trip out here."

"Great idea. If she kills him, it's one less rich asshole in the world."

"Jason!"

"Kidding, kidding…"

_Except not really, because Queen's a bag of dicks. _

"Let's just…unpack everything. Her behavior, her mannerisms, things she said…"

"The crazy and the crazier…"

"What was that thing she mumbled when she stabbed Dick?" Tim wonders. "It sounded kind of familiar."

"It's from _A Midsummer Night's Dream."_

"What?"

"The _play_," Jason enunciates and when Tim still looks nonplussed, he adds, "by Shakespeare?"

The younger man shifts uncomfortably. "I sort of…zoned out of most of those classes." Jason shoots him a disgusted look and he raises his free hand in defense. "What? Half the time I was exhausted from patrol the night before, and the other half—" He makes an exasperated noise. "It was needlessly confusing. Language has evolved since then. Also, all the plots are ridiculous."

"I'll say it again. You're a heathen. I don't know why I like you."

"Because you're infected with the blood of the god of love?" Tim suggests, and though Jason knows he's trying for a joke, there's something tense in his words.

He feels like he needs to reassure him. "To be fair, you were my favorite before that."

"I was…what?"

"As much as it's possible to have a favorite pain in the ass," Jason continues thoughtfully. "And next to Cass, of course. Just because I'm pretty sure she's everyone's favorite."

"Of course…" Tim repeats faintly.

"But yeah, you're definitely less annoying than the rest of the brood. And you forgave me for almost killing you those times, which is pretty cool of you."

Silence meets his explanation, and he glances over to find Tim staring at him, mouth agape.

_Way to sound like a kid with a crush, Todd. Great job. _

"Hey, watch the road," Jason snaps, ears heating up.

Tim clears his throat and gives a minute shake of his head. There's another taut silence as they pull into the Cave garage and he puts the car in park.

Jason stays silent, letting Tim brood with his thinking face on; just watches him with what feels like a stupid look on his face until Tim shakes his head and they get out of the car.

"So a nameless mythical deity that possesses people and likes to quote Shakespeare?"

"I admit, it was kind of odd and out of the blue for her to say that," Jason agrees. "Maybe she was trying to be dramatic. I mean, she butchered the delivery anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, in the play, that part's about making someone fall in love, not overtly causing them to hate other people.

Tim is silent for a few moments, parsing Jason's explanation.

"Okay, so she was trying to be clever?" he suggests. "Or, whoever's _wearing_ her is being clever."

"Maybe _they_ have an appreciation for the Bard."

Tim ignores that. "It just seems so out of place with everything else that happened in the fight."

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," Jason points out.

"And sometimes it's a stick of dynamite."

As they head to the stairs, they pause in front of the containment unit where Dick is lying unconscious, divested of cowl and tools. That's a preventative measure since there's no cure for the arrow that they know of, and no telling what he'll do upon waking.

Watching over him, arms crossed and a forbidding expression on his face, is Bruce.

_Shit. Daddy's home. _

When he hears them approach, the original Batman turns to face them, expression thunderous.

"This isn't going to be good," Tim murmurs under his breath, lips barely moving.

Jason snorts with laughter. "Well, damn, babybird, you made me miss my curfew."

Tim groans. "Not now, Jason."

Before they can do more than blink, Bruce is in front of Jason, fingers clenched in the material above his body armor, lifting him enough that Jason finds himself balancing on his toes.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Bruce demands.

"Bruce, stop it!" Tim yells, trying to put himself between them.

"Stephanie's injured! Dick is out of commission—Damian could have _died_—!"

"As if that's different from any other night," Damian mutters from across the way where he's beadily watching Alfred treat Steph's fracture.

She shushes him and elbows him with her good arm.

"This is exactly the kind of recklessness you wanted to prevent when you contacted me!" Bruce continues. "What was the _point_ if you were just going to go out anyway?"

"Bruce, it wasn't Jason's idea," Tim insists, trying to put himself between the two of them. "It was mine."

Bruce pauses, somewhat caught off-guard. It gives Jason the opportunity to free himself and step back, arms crossed. "Way to shoot first and ask questions later, B."

"You were told to wait," Bruce growls at Tim.

"For what?" Tim argues with unexpected vigor. "A few more hours and you'd have been here, but what would it have changed?"

"Dick and Stephanie wouldn't be injured, for one."

"You don't know that," Jason interjects.

Tim nods in agreement. "Even you couldn't have accounted for Cutter actually being possessed by some god. It might even have been much worse if you _had_ been there."

"Tim has a point," Steph pipes up. "She could have whammied Batman—well, she _did_ whammy Batman, but not the _broody_ Batman. Things might have been worse than a broken arm."

Bruce shoots Steph a look like he doesn't know whether to be more irritated by her speaking up, or by the implication that he would have been taken out in the same fashion as Dick.

"Basically, I kind of think we got off easy. In the long run," she concludes sagely. A beat later, she giggle-snorts. "'Got off'."

Damian wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I honestly can't tell if this is your base sense of humor or if Pennyworth put you on the good painkillers."

Impaired or not, Steph's clearly making enough sense to make Bruce think twice. He doesn't look like he likes that, either, and Jason can see by his face he's deciding on a different tack.

"You still should not have removed Jason from the premises. Red Hood is not cleared for fieldwork until this situation is resolved, and you put everyone in danger by allowing it."

"Excuse me? No one 'allows' me to do anything," Jason scoffs.

Bruce ignores him. "You couldn't have known what heightened adrenaline might do to this infection."

"It was a chance to get the diviners back, and I wasn't going to waste it."

"And now you've compromised any element of surprise that we had," Bruce points out. "Cupid and whatever entity is backing her now knows you're looking to get them back. This was incredibly short-sighted of you, Tim. I'm disappointed."

Tim's mouth thins, something flashing across his face that Jason doesn't quite catch, before he straightens his back and does his best to loom right back.

Jason swallows, feeling a little hotter beneath his gear.

_That's hot. _Why_ is that hot?_

Bruce ignores it, continuing on.

"And it's not just Tim who should have known better. Damian, Alfred, you _do_ know better."

"I am quite sure the man I raised isn't presuming to chastise me," Alfred replies calmly. "Just as I'm sure any and all attempts I may or may not have made to dissuade the young masters would have been as summarily ignored. Much in the same way similar attempts with their father have been rebuffed all these years."

Bruce clenches his jaw.

_Score one for the Englishman. _

"What good does knowing better do me if no one listens?" Damian mutters, clenching his fists.

"Just wait 'til you're taller, little man," Steph soothes.

"Shut up, Brown."

"And you did not see the state Master Jason was descending into," Alfred says, not as an excuse but as fact. "This was a judgment call made with the information we had at the time."

"Information based on Tim's analysis—Tim, who has been compromised about this from the beginning!"

Tim's cheeks flare red and there's something that looks almost like panic in his eyes. Jason doesn't know the reason for it, but he knows that he'll gladly fight the guy who put it there.

"Yeah, screw you, B," he snaps, putting himself directly in his face. "It's not like there's a manual for this sort of thing. "Tim's doing his best."

Bruce shakes his head, mind clearly made up.

"Jason should be quarantined again—" He ignores their noises of protest, "—Tim can stay close by to offset whatever symptoms manifest, but outside. It's safer that way if the infection progresses in such a way where he becomes dangerous."

"No!" Tim argues. "Right now, the best place for Jason is next to me—without a bulletproof glass wall between us. We've already seen that the more often we're separated, the more debilitating the symptoms become."

"That won't always work."

"But for now it does." Tim crosses his arms. "I'm staying with him."

"Then you're officially benched."

"If you think either of us going to sit back and wait for _you_ to solve a case that involves us, you've taken one too many blows to the head," Jason snorts.

"Don't you see, Bruce? Working the case—it's helping Jason occupy himself. Otherwise, he's _literally _tearing his hair out."

Damian opens his mouth and Jason snaps a finger in his general direction. "Make one crack about my hairline, baby demon, and I swear I'll—"

"It's clear to me that Jason is not the only one compromised—Tim, you shouldn't be in the field either. I don't want to see you out there, is that clear?"

"You're not going to stop us."

"Tim."

It's one word, said with enough warning as to remind Tim exactly who he's talking to.

"Okay, fine, you probably _could_ stop us, physically," Tim allows. "But we won't make it easy. And then we're both out of here and screw your help."

"Just listen to yourself! You're no longer sounding like you," Bruce says, narrowing his eyes. "That's enough to confirm everything I'm saying."

"I'm not sounding like me because I'm not just going along with everything you say?" Tim counters. "Newsflash, Bruce, you don't _always_ know what's best. Jason's been saying it for years and everyone ignores him, but maybe he's on to something!"

"Tim!" Steph protests.

He throws up his hand in disgust. "You know what? Fine. We're benched. We won't go out in the field anymore. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up on this case, I can still investigate from a distance. And it _sure_ as hell doesn't mean we have to stay down here with you!"

He turns on his heel and stalks off back down the stairs, his cape flaring behind him in such a Batman-reminiscent fashion that Jason would laugh if he weren't so stunned at what's just transpired.

He's not the only one having trouble processing, it seems.

Alfred sighs in a way that's supposed to sound like exasperation, but which everyone knows masks worry. Damian and Steph are actually open-mouthed. Bruce looks like he's trying to remain blank-faced, but there's calculation going on in those eyes.

Jason doesn't want to know what that calculation is coming up with.

Instead, he shakes his head and jabs his thumb in Tim's direction.

"I'm with him," he says, already walking away. "Because of the whole…you know. Infection. But also, you're an ass."

"Jason—"

"Let them go, Master Bruce," Alfred says. "I believe we all need to take a few moments…"

Damian says something, but honestly, Jason's no longer listening, too intent on going after Tim.

He's feeling something strange and buoyant, something that's edging dangerously close to validation.

It's a novelty because he's always the scapegoat, the family screw-up and cautionary tale. No one ever defends him—it's almost required that everyone have a caustic comment for him by now, and normally he takes it in stride, gives as good as he gets.

But Tim, of all people, is on his side this time and that's put a ridiculous smile on his face.

That smile vanishes when he gets down the stairs and he sees the way Tim's expression is twisted, not with righteous anger, but with guilt and doubt.

"He's right," Tim murmurs, pacing back and forth. "This isn't like me."

"Are you kidding?" Jason asks, trying for levity. "That was amazing."

"You're just saying that because I told off Bruce, and you're happy when anyone tells him off."

"Well, yeah. But also, how many people have the balls to stand up to the Big Bat? Present company excluded."

"He's just so…" Tim trails off, gesturing wildly to encompass his meaning, and then throws down his hands in annoyance. "You know what? There isn't even a word."

"Been saying that for years."

"Doesn't mean he's wrong. We should have waited. We didn't even get anything out of this." Tim runs his fingers through his hair, agitated. "Except for him getting pissed off at _you. _And you're the one who he's supposed to be helping."

Jason shrugs. He's too used to that sort of thing for it to be a surprise. He moves in closer to Tim, filled with the urge to protect him somehow.

"And I'm supposed to be helping, but I just made it worse."

"Bullshit. This whole situation is fucked up, it's not all on you."

"You wouldn't say that if you weren't hopped up on Olympian blood."

"Okay, then, how about I go take a swing at B? I'm always up for that."

Tim snorts. "I don't think one thing necessarily cancels out the other."

But he's smiling now, expression going clear and relaxed for a minute and for a second Jason sees the kid as he is when he's not pretending to be red robin or Tim drake Wayne or dutiful son or terrifyingly clever master planner that goes head to head with Ra's al Ghul.

And Jason can't help really help himself anymore.

Maybe it's the infection, or the lingering adrenaline from the fight with Cupid, or the argument with Bruce. Or just the way Tim, fresh off standing up for Jason against everyone else, is looking at him just then.

But before he can really think better of it, he's leaning in and covering Tim's mouth with his.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	11. XI

It takes Tim ten seconds longer than he'll ever admit before he understands what's going on.

Even then, he almost allows himself to get lost in the moment as his awareness floods with unexpected sensation: the brush of lips against his, warm and unexpectedly soft, the scratch of day-old stubble against his chin, weird, but good weird; the smell of motor oil and smoke and generic shampoo.

His pulse thunders in his ears, lungs burning because he doesn't trust himself to exhale. It takes everything he has to fight against the reflex to lean forward into Jason. He has to remind himself why this is the _worst_ possible idea right now.

While his words remain locked in his throat, his lack of reaction must still speak volumes. Or maybe it's just Jason's own wits returning to him. Either way, he jerks back from Tim, expression morphing through several iterations—horror, confusion, and guilt.

"Shit," he says, voice hoarse. He takes a step back, eyes wide with panic. "_Shit_. You don't…you don't want this."

His wild gaze darts around, everywhere but Tim's face, before settling on something behind him that makes the color drain from his face. He takes another stumbling step backward.

Tim whips around, hoping to hell it's not Bruce behind them, and only feels a modicum less dismay to find Steph there instead. She's frozen in mid-step, arm in a sling and mouth gaping at what she's just walked in on.

"What the…?"

"Steph," Tim warns, trying to ignore the way his own cheeks become warm and his voice mimics a croak.

There's a muffled clatter behind him as Jason drops his helmet and practically trips over his boots backing away.

"I have to go," he chokes, still refusing to look at Tim.

He's already taken off by the time Tim manages to form the syllables of his name.

"What do you think you're doing?" Steph calls after him as Jason vanishes into the garage. "You can't leave!"

The only answer is a bike engine roaring to life, and the squeal of tires as Jason peels out of the Cave.

"Jason, no—!" Tim tries, knows it's a bad idea for some reason, but he's having trouble getting his thoughts to really connect. He can't make himself move, legs seemingly bolted to the stone floor.

Jason kissed him.

_Jason_ kissed_ him._

It's s something he's only ever allowed himself to image in the farthest recesses of his mind, the place his thoughts wander just before he falls asleep and can't control their destination.

If this had happened three weeks ago, Tim would have been elated. Surprised and flustered, no doubt, but cautiously thrilled at the idea of Jason returning any kind of interest in him.

The hard truth is that he _doesn't_.

The kiss wasn't the result of Jason liking him, or even _wanting_ to kiss him at all. It's the result of a poison swimming through his bloodstream, stealing his will and his judgment and forcing some pale imitation desire for Tim.

And Tim—

Tim is still revisiting the moment in his brain, committing to memory the sensation of Jason's mouth on his. His heart is still racing, the way it always does after a first kiss. He's had enough of them to recognize the feeling, but that's normally followed by warmth and relief and happiness.

Right now, all he feels are the competing urges to either sob or vomit. It's strong enough that he stumbles toward the stairs, past Steph's shocked and questioning gaze, and Bruce who stands at the head of the stairs.

"What's going on?" he demands.

Tim meets his gaze, wondering how he's supposed to answer that. On the one hand, they need to know Jason's condition may have progressed, but on the other, some part of him wants to keep what just happened as private as possible.

He shoots Steph a pleading look, and though she seems confused for a moment, it's barely noticeable.

"Jason left," she says.

"After all that, you allowed Todd to leave?" Damian demands, marching down to lurk behind Bruce.

"He didn't like being benched," Steph supplies. "Probably needed to go sulk."

"If his condition is as serious as you all seem to think, he should not be driving," Bruce warns. "I'm going after him, before he—"

"Oh, just let him go," a voice interrupts, voice exaggerating boredom. They all turn to the containment unit, where Dick is standing in his underwear, arms crossed. "He probably won't get himself killed. And hey, if he does, chances are he'll come back again. Evil doesn't stay dead."

Bruce's brows furrow. "Dick."

"Bruce. Are you going to let me out, or am I supposed to freeze my ass here in my underwear the rest of the night?"

"Do you still have the sudden urge to kill us all?" Damian challenges, trying for bravado but unable to completely hide his real unease.

"'' 'Sudden'?" Dick replies. "You talk like it's something I haven't dreamed about since Bruce stuck some new brat in my family's colors."

Damian clenches his fists, and Bruce says, "There's your answer."

"Oh, come on," the first Robin groans. "Like you haven't thought about it once or twice. How much _easier_ your life would be if it was just like old times. Me and you and Babs."

The words hurt, but it's dulled somehow, both by the fact Tim knows this isn't Dick—not really—and by his own overwhelmed exhaustion. This whole situation is hitting him all over again and he's just…

Done.

He doesn't bother with explanations or excuses as he strides toward the rarely used elevator. He needs time. And space. To think.

Or not think, as it were.

Somehow, his thoughts remain blissfully empty and blank as he heads upstairs, tossing his gear on the ground once he's in his room. He gets in the shower, turns it on as hot as it can go and just stands in the spray for a while.

As the aches ease from his body, he carefully allows his thoughts to trickle back in, and to look at the situation objectively.

Jason kissed him, true.

But he didn't do it to hurt him, either intentionally—by doing so without his consent—or unintentionally—because he has no idea about Tim's feelings. Probably, he's out there somewhere panicking. Most likely there will be some time period spent self-flagellating before he tries to do something about the situation.

Hopefully, Bruce or Damian or someone has gone after him by now. If not, Tim will have to do it.

Just as soon as he eases a little more exhaustion from his bones and muscles.

_When was the last time I slept? It might be going on two days now. _

No wonder he was taken by surprise. Maybe if he had been well-rested, if his body wasn't a giant bruise from their ill-fated encounter with Cupid, his reaction time would have been better. He could have cut Jason off before he did anything, and he'd still be here.

He needs to go find him. Needs to venture back down to the Batcave, might even have to have another argument with Bruce about his fitness to be involved in the case.

Finding the confidence for that—to even _fake_ for that—takes longer than he'd like.

By the time he finally gets out of the shower and into some civilian clothes, a half-hour has passed.

He's unsurprised to find Steph loitering against his bedroom door when he opens it, expression of determined concern on her face. He half-expected it to be Bruce—wonders how she convinced him to stay downstairs.

"I'm fine," he tells her automatically, hating how it sounds like it's being dragged from the depths of his throat.

"You're not fine. This whole situation is the definition of 'not fine'."

"We're all doing the best we can."

"If that were true, you wouldn't be hiding up here. He's really messing you up, isn't he?"

"It's not Dick's fault."

"I'm not talking about Dick." Steph pushes off the walls, arms crossed. "I know it's been weird for all of us seeing the big bad Red Hood's recent personality change, but it's obviously different with him being so fixated on you. And now that it's getting physical—"

"It's not getting physical, that was just…"

He can't find the words to explain.

"You weren't expecting it," she suggests. "It's okay. Honestly, I don't think he was expecting to do that either, considering how fast he ran out of there. But if that's happening now, he's only going to get worse."

"It's not Jason's fault either."

"I know that. But clearly things are escalating. I'm not always Batman's biggest fan, but I think he's right about this one."

"Steph…"

"Or, at least sit down as a group and figure out what to do, instead of you two butting heads the whole time."

"This is happening to Jason and it's happening to me. We're the ones who should get the final say on how to handle it, and it's been working so far."

"Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked you in the guts repeatedly? I know you want to help him, but you don't have to force yourself to be okay with everything. No one would blame you if you needed to take a step back."

"I _don't_ need to take a step back."

"Are you sure about that? From what I heard, this whole thing has been a gamble from the start. I'm still shocked Bruce let it go on as long as it has. It's not fair to either of you."

"Bruce isn't _letting_ anything happen," Tim snaps with unexpected venom, irritation washing over him. "This is _my_ choice and as much of Jason's choice as it can be right now. What you saw was just a…a momentary lapse. I'll—we'll adjust."

But there's a painful lump in his throat as he says that, and his thoughts flicker through images of Jason at his worst, at his most hateful—and contrast them with the easy-going, open and semi-flirtatious man he's gotten to see in the past few days.

The stark difference between the violent, brutal ways they've fought one another in the past, and the gentle slide of Jason's fingers against his cheek when he kissed him.

_How do I adjust after that?_

"I've haven't seen this much denial from you since Bruce's not-death," Steph says, narrowing her eyes at him. "Is there something else going on here that you're not telling us?"

"No," Tim says shortly and starts down the hall. "I've got stuff to do, so—"

"Oh, no you don't, I'm not buying the whole stoic-wannabe-Batman routine for a second!" she trails him down the hallway. "You only get like this when you're trying to keep people from noticing you're hurting. And I get the situation is confusing and all—"

"Leave it alone, Steph!"

"—but why the hell would Jason kissing you hurt? It'd be weird, sure, but it shouldn't bother you at all."

"Steph—"

"You're the one insisting it's not his fault, that he doesn't…really…feel…" Tim tries to keep walking, but then he's being spun around by the shoulder, and forced to look into wide, shocked blue eyes. "Are you hurting _because_ it's not real?"

Tim clenches his jaw shut and does his best to meet her gaze—avoidance would just be a confirmation—but Steph's always been intuitive about things like this.

"Tim, you're not…you don't actually have _feelings_ for Jason, do you?" she practically whispers, like she's afraid to say it too loud. As if that makes it real.

_Story of my life there. _

It would be so easy to deny it, to brush it off and tell Steph that she's reading too much into things. To pretend like it's just the situation that has him off his game. But today, he's exhausted, and mustering up the energy required to sell the story seems like too much.

Against his will, his eyes lower, and Steph releases him with a gasp.

He closes his eyes, waiting for judgment.

Instead, he feels her move closer, linking her fingers through his and tugging them until he looks up at her. The only thing on her face is concern.

"Tim," she begins, careful, "I know this is a bit of a head-trip, Jason being nice to everyone and all. Even _I'm_ starting to like the guy a bit. But…"

"It's not like that."

"Okay then. What's it like?"

Still no judgment, just Stephanie expecting Tim to explain it to her in a way she can understand. They used to have so many arguments that he withheld information from her, and in the end of them, he was doing his best to get in the habit of walking her through his thought process—even if he failed most of the time.

Just as he's failing now in the oppressive silence between them.

He opens his mouth, tries to come up with the words, then closes it again because—honestly—he can't even explain it to himself sometimes.

There's a sharp intake of breath.

"_Jesus_." Steph presses her fingers to her lips in agitation. "I don't…I don't even know what to say to that."

"Don't say anything," Tim suggests, tired. "I'm well aware of the status quo and hoping for things to be different is a waste of time."

"But, Tim—"

"No," he cuts her off, and ducks away from her, suddenly needing to be away from the boxed-in feeling of her closeness. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is saving Jason. Not just for me. This is—we have to save him, Steph. I can't—_we_ can't lose him in his head again. Bruce can't."

And now Steph's expression is no longer telegraphing shock, but also pain and pity. Obviously, she knows that everything Tim just said is true.

"Tim…"

"Let's save the comments for after this mess is figured out, okay?" he suggests, trying for mild. He halfway manages it.

Steph looks like she'd like to protest, but instead nods. "Okay. I'm just worried."

"You don't have to be."

"Bull. Whatever our issues, you've always been in my corner. I'll never stop worrying about you."

And that's actually comforting.

He shoots her a tight smile of gratitude. "Come on. Enough moping, we've got two Bats that need to be helped now."

"My thoughts exactly," a gruff voice says behind them, and Tim winces, because he really should have expected Bruce to show up eventually.

_Looks like Steph only managed to delay him a bit. God, did he hear any of that?_

He starts to feel sick again.

"Lurk much?" Steph snaps.

"Stephanie, could you give us a few minutes?"

She makes a face and then shrugs. "You've got three before I go get Alfred."

She disappears.

Tim and Bruce regard each other for a few seconds, both tense.

"How long _have_ you been standing there?" Tim asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels.

"About thirty seconds," Bruce replies, and Tim mentally revisits his conversation with Steph. He doesn't think he said anything too incriminating. His stomach unclenches a bit. "Your concentration isn't up to your usual standards."

Tim's mouth thins.

_So, it's time for the not so constructive criticism, is it?_

But to his surprise, Bruce suddenly looks apologetic.

"Sorry. Given your concern for Jason…for _me_, I can understand it. I know you're only trying to help as best you can. And I…" he hesitates, clearly chewing on something that's difficult for him, "…could have handled my earlier reaction better."

"You think?" Tim can't help needling.

Bruce simply nods, doesn't elaborate.

Of course, that's as far as he'll go. Still, for Batman, that's a lot.

"Thanks," Tim says after a beat. "And if you heard what I said—I meant it. I won't let us lose Jason again. Or Dick."

Bruce nods again and then squares his shoulders. "Barbara is on her way here."

_Awesome segue, Bruce…_

Outwardly, he simply remarks, "That's rare."

"I contacted her. Since she wasn't there when Dick was hit by Cupid's arrow, he should have no problem with her. Chances are she can work with him to try to figure out a solution while we focus on Jason."

"I bet she loved being relegated to babysitting her ex."

"I would do it, but I need to keep Damian occupied," Bruce says. "He's taking Dick's...current attitude…harder than he'd like to pretend."

_I get that. It's not a great feeling when the mentor you've been low-key hero-worshipping looks at you like you're dirt. _

"She wouldn't have agreed, but she has some information for Jason and can't get in contact with him."

Tim frowns. "His comms are off, then?"

"Yes. And he seems to have found and destroyed all my trackers. Do you have any on him?"

"No. It…felt like another breach of privacy, given the circumstances," Tim murmurs, trying not to see the exasperation Bruce tries to hide.

"Trackers or no, Jason's always had a tendency—or rather a _talent_—for avoiding Batman when he wants to," he says after a moment. "Given his condition, he may not actively try to hide from you."

It's a reversal from what he was saying before, but Tim gets the sense that Bruce is trying here. Trying to trust him, despite his earlier misgivings.

_What's going on with Dick must be getting to him. He's used to Jason being the one he has to worry about, but not anyone else._

Tim considers this. "Then I'll find him."

"In the meantime, we can hear what Barbara has to say."

Tim doesn't point out that the information was for Jason because on the off chance it _helps_ Jason, it's better to learn sooner than later.

Another thought occurs to him.

"Did Diana ever get back to you? When you were on your way back you said she hadn't yet, but…?"

"No." Bruce's expression becomes shadowed. "I'm starting to think there's a reason for it."

"You think that's tied in?"

"We're dealing one Olympian god—possibly two. Of course, it has something to do with it."

"Are Clark or any of the other League members dealing with wayward gods?"

"Nothing from what I've found out. The Titans?"

"Not that I know of."

"Did you get in contact with Wonder Girl?"

"No. Not yet. I can do that now. Maybe she's got some ideas about helping Dick, too."

"Hm." Bruce nods, and heads back downstairs. He pauses, then turns to Tim with an indecipherable expression. "I realize we haven't been the closest in the past few months. But I…am available to you if you ever need to talk. About anything."

"Uh. Okay?"

Bruce watches him another five seconds and then descends the stairs.

_What's _that _supposed to mean?_

Tim really doesn't want to think too closely about that right now, he has enough anxiety-inducing thoughts beating around his skull. Instead, he reaches for his phone and speed-dials her, flipping the phone around to face him.

"Hey, stranger," she says as she picks up on the fourth ring. The screen wavers as she seemingly props it up on something, allowing her to keep eating; apparently he caught her in the middle of supper.

_Breakfast? What time is it even?_

"I thought you'd dropped off the face of the planet. Did you finally finish up that issue with Eros?"

"Not even close," Tim sighs, scraping his hand down his face. He's going to need to shave soon.

"Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"You probably won't. Please hold all well-deserved scolding until the end."

"What happened."

"So, we tried to get the bow and arrows back…"

"And it didn't go as planned?"

"Worse. Nightwing kind of…got tagged."

"You're kidding," Cassie groans. "Which arrow? Though either one has the potential to be horrible."

Tim snorts. "As uncomfortable as it would have been, I think we'd all rather deal with overly amorous Dick Grayson than the asshole that's down in the containment unit."

"That's the trouble when it's someone you care about," she agrees. "They always know exactly where to twist the knife. Or arrow, in this case. Speaking of, that's what this is."

"Huh?"

"The arrow he got stuck with? It has to be removed."

"There is no arrow."

"Well, _you_ wouldn't be able to see it. It exists on a different plane. Only Eros, or the person wielding his bow and arrow, would be able to see or touch it. It's why even the gods could never stop him from making them fall in or out of love with someone unless they convinced him to do it."

"_That's_ not encouraging. Only Eros…" Tim trails off, thinking of the winged terror in his base, and of the trouble he's caused.

Of Jason moving into his personal space, pressing his mouth against his—

"What about someone infected with Eros blood?" he blurts out, shaking his face in an attempt to get his cheeks to cool off.

"I mean, maybe, no one's ever tried, but—" Cassie cuts off and narrows her eyes at Tim. "What do you _mean_ someone infected by Eros blood? Are you going to bring some civilian in and try to get them to fix Nightwing? Because that will only get someone hurt."

Tim shifts, uncomfortable. "Okay, so…remember how I didn't really tell you who it was?"

"Yes…"

"It…might have been Red Hood."

Cassie lets out a string of curse words, some of which may actually be Kryptonian.

_Looks like Kon's rubbing off on her…_

"Just because Batman doesn't tell his team all the details until he's ready, doesn't mean you get to do the same thing!" she hisses. "This is serious!"

"I realize that."

"No, you don't!" That guy's crazy!"

"It's complicated."

"Complicated?! I've seen the footage, Tim! When he came back and did his rounds messing with everyone in your family, he almost _killed_ you! He injured and incapacitated our _friends_!"

"I'm not disputing that."

"He doesn't show restraint, just throws himself into things without caring about the consequences—"

"Debatable."

"—and has already shown obsessive tendencies. I don't even want to imagine what he's like now that he's been infected with…with _erotic obsession_ for someone!"

"I don't have to imagine, and it's fine, we're handling it."

"You mean protecting some poor civilian from their brand new murderous stalker?"

"There aren't any civilians involved, so you can relax."

"No civi—you mean it's a cape he's obsessed with?" Her voice becomes suspicion. "Is it one of you?" When he still doesn't reply, the suspicion turns to something dangerous. "Tim…Tim, _please_ tell me that it's not _you_ that he's focused on."

"It's not his fault—" he begins.

"That's it!" Cassie throws up her hands. "I'm rounding everyone up and we're coming to you."

"No, you're not!" Tim protests, panicking a little because he's already got Steph who's going to be watching him like something about to break. The Titans known him just as well, they're going to figure out the truth just as fast, and he doesn't want them preemptively crippling Jason.

Unless he can stop her, he's going to have a lot of explaining to do—and not just to her.

⁂

Jason isn't entirely sure how he gets out of the Cave, let alone without being tailed by anyone. His normally stellar senses are clogged instead by overwhelming guilt and shame, thoughts seesawing back and away from the fact _he just kissed Tim Drake_.

He had tasted like coffee and blood from a split lip, and damn it, Jason shouldn't have done that when he was hurt—

_I shouldn't have done it at _all_!_

The bike beneath him wobbles in a way it shouldn't as he speeds down the deserted road without an actual destination in mind, just the persistent need to be somewhere that's _elsewhere_.

The world around him flickers, substituting the damp and gritty pavement with a dark room then sand-swept stone walls and then an angry, roiling ocean and then a sunlit field. His head pounds with the high-pitched cackle of his nightmares, which morphs into the cheering of hundreds of voices and then screaming.

He feels the strain of his muscles as he swings a sword, the press of his armored back against that belonging to the man who is an extension of himself, tastes blood and dirt in his mouth and the furious joy of a good fight.

Bristol's gloomy darkness flashes back and forth to a battlefield, bodies, and steel colliding, to the inside of a canvas tent and his hand is on Tim's cheek, the same as it was in the Batcave.

_"Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart," he says, and Tim wraps his own fingers around his hand, brings Jason's palm to his lips._

_No, not Tim. That wasn't his name, it was—_

Jason only just comes back to himself in time to pull over on the shoulder of the road instead of plowing into an oncoming red pickup truck. He staggers from the bike, ignoring the _thunk_ as it falls to the ground, has to put his head between his legs.

"Hey, buddy—you okay? You just came out of nowhere—"

"'m fine!" Jason gasps, backing away from whoever is trying to talk to him. His vision continues to blur and double, juxtaposing night with the day, present with the dream he can't escape.

_Moonlight over the city, the colorless adobe buildings illuminated in its path. Sounds of raucous laughter and music from the inside palace, but outside on the balcony, it is calm and he is at peace. _

_"I conquer everything, and it would mean nothing without you. In this world, you alone are the one I trust."_

_"And you are everything I care for," the dark-eyed man beside him replies. _

"No, his eyes are blue," Jason murmurs.

"What was that? Hey man, did you hit your head?"

_He stares across the manor ballroom until it catches the strange kid's attention, grinning when the boy's eyes widen at him. Their color is startling, and they take up practically his whole face._

_Jason's about to motion for him to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, would break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce's hand falls hard on his shoulder._

_"Time to make an exit, son," he says, and from the distracted way he's talking, Jason doesn't even need to look out the window to see the sky. _

Jason gasps, clutching at his head as it throbs like it's been trapped in a vice. There's burning pain, not unlike being emerged in a Lazarus pit like something is being forced into him. Only this time, it's not _life_, but—

_A green dale, unnaturally green and clean, with flowers more vibrant than anything he has ever seen. Birds sing in harmonious tones, fly against the sky that is impossibly blue, perfect wispy clouds gathered around alpine mountains in the distance. _

_Sitting against a tree, familiar form cradled against his chest. He feels a wistful sigh. "I would spend eternity with you if I could." _

"I'm going to call for an ambulance," the stranger says, and somehow that cuts through the whirlwind of emotion and image crowding Jason's head right then.

"No," he says, straightens up. "No…I'm okay…"

This time he manages to push back the influx of thoughts, seizing on every bit of training he's ever had in clearing his mind. The images are still coming, but Jason can think around them now.

_Not sure how long for, though._

He squints at the man, trying to assess how much trouble it will be if he has to knock him out and run.

Athletic build, blond hair in a brush cut, red tattoos all up his arms of sun and flames, which Jason can see because he's standing there in nothing but a wife-beater in mid-November. In fact, he kind of looks like someone waiting around for the next Burning Man.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," Jason snaps and starts for his bike.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" the guy demands. "You can't just get back up on that thing, not if you've got a head injury or something."

"No…"

"You're in a bad way, man, take the help."

"Listen, pal, if you don't back off—"

Jason hears a motor revving up in the distance and tenses, visions of being followed by the other Bats. He destroyed the tracker on the bike before he took it, but that's never a guarantee.

"Never mind," he switches tacks. "You're right. I need to go."

He intends to go on foot, to disappear into the shadows and tree line, but the guy is pointing at his truck.

"I can drive you to the hospital if you don't want to wait for an ambulance."

"No hospital," Jason replies, then forces himself to think past the blurring visions in his mind. "But…there's somewhere I can get help."

It's the last place he wants to go, but he also knows it's the only place he stands a chance of getting some answers. Even if there will be a lot of smug posturing beforehand.

"I need to get to the East End."

"Hop in," the guy says.

"Fine. But you try anything—"

"Relax, dude, you're not my type."

"Still. Full disclosure: if you try anything on me, I'll stab you in the neck," Jason says—or thinks he says. Everything has a decidedly dreamlike quality right now.

"Fair," the stranger laughs. His sunny disposition should be raising flags right now, but Jason gets the feeling that's genuine. "So, were you on your way to a costume party or something?"

Jason blinks, looks down at himself, and realizes he's still in his gear, minus the helmet he left on the floor of the cave. The red bat seems larger, more menacing than it should be.

Instantly recognizable to the average Gothamite.

He pauses, one foot in the truck, narrows his eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Nope," is the cheerful reply. "Drove up from Florida to visit some family."

"Right."

"No offense, but so far I'm not impressed," he goes on as Jason slowly eases into the passenger seat. "The sun doesn't really show up here much, does it?"

"You want sun, go to Metropolis," Jason mutters, as always a bit defensive about his city.

"Oh, I've been there. _Big_ Superman fan."

"Of course you are…"

"I'm Paul, by the way."

"Good for you. Can we get going?"

"Point the way."

As it turns out, he doesn't actually do much pointing. Paul apparently has an uncanny sense of direction, because Jason doesn't recall giving him any directions. Although to be fair, he doesn't recall very much of the drive because the minute he's sitting down and the scenery is flying past, his mind goes back to assaulting him with images and sounds and feelings he can't explain.

Before, the dreams were like the distant recollection of feeling and sensation, but now they images won't leave his mind.

_"In life, I sought your heart and won—I followed you into battle, and into death—I follow wherever you will go here in this place that is no place. Do you truly believe that in any life, I would not find you? That I would not be drawn to you? That I would not love you?"_

It's him, he knows that much, and that's Tim, but at the same time, it's not. It's like watching from behind someone else's eyes and yet like long-buried childhood memories suddenly making an appearance.

Paul is humming beside him, unaware of the tumult in Jason's mind. Something about all this should be sending alarms blaring in Jason's head, but it just doesn't register.

_"Should the time come where the gods decree we return to the land of the living, it won't matter if we return at opposite sides of the world, as a lowly servant to the stately king, as warriors from enemy kingdoms. We will always be reunited. And we will always be ourselves. And that is enough to make me confident we would be worthy of Elysium again and again."_

"We're about to enter the Bowery," Paul announces. "Least that's what the sign says. I assume that means something to you."

"Yeah," Jason says, looking around in confusion. "That's a lot faster than I expected."

"What can I say? I got some powerful horses under the hood of this thing," the other man says, patting the dash.

Jason finds himself nodding.

He has Paul drop him off a block or two away from Tim's apartment, waves away any attempts to go with him, and at his first opportunity disappears into the familiar alleyways without a backward glance.

He doesn't want to risk anyone knowing where Tim lives.

Normally he's not bothered too much by anyone possibly recognizing him—no civilian identity means he doesn't have to worry about his enemies tracking him down that way—but Tim's been under public scrutiny enough in the past year or so without a known vigilante showing up at his front door.

_It's just the scoop old Vicki would kill for_.

His lips curl in disgust, and he briefly entertains the thought of tracking the reporter down and teaching her a lesson about messing with his—

"Stop it," he orders himself.

He finds his way into Tim's place the same way as he did before, barely notices the trip down into the depths of chrome and computer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach for someone who isn't there, and his mouth still tastes like Tim.

Or does it?

He's not sure if this is from now, or from the—

_Memories? Is that what they are? And if so, _whose_?_

He shakes that off. All that matters is getting to the person that can answer his question, that can tell him what's happening to him.

Eros is sitting cross-legged in his cell, using an empty Big Belly Burger cup to play Quarters with a gold coin. He glances up when Jason appears in front of him, and his eyes widen in appreciation.

"Oh, you _are_ handsome under that ugly red monstrosity," he purrs, gaze roving over Jason's features without apology.

He ignores it, instead growls out, "Something's happening to me."

Eros freezes.

"It's different from before, from the…from fixating on Tim. I'm seeing—I hear whispers, it's like I'm remembering something. Another life. Lives. But they're not mine."

"Fucking _finally_," Eros groans in unquestionable relief. He puffs his cheeks out in irritation, "I thought you were never going to wake up."

Not the response Jason was expecting.

"Wake up? What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, welcome back to the land of the living, your highness. You took your sweet-ass time about it."

Jason gapes, confused for a half-second and then hit with sudden clarity.

**_"Peleides." _**

**_"I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness—"_**

**_"All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings—"_**

**_"You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to _****dictate****_ to me?"_**

**_"Peleides."_**

**_"—it doesn't look a thing like him."_**

"I was king," he realizes dimly. "I was…"_Achilleus. Alexandros. _"…basileus."

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Eros nods.

It takes longer than Jason would like for him to navigate through the onslaught of memories, to parse what the winged-man is saying.

"You. You were _expecting_ me to wake up?"

"Expecting? Darlin', I orchestrated it," Eros replies smugly. "You think getting tagged with my blood was an _accident_? That took exact planning and timing on my part."

_What._

"When my warehouse got broken into by those Russian ruffians and then you two muttonheads dropped in, I recognized your souls right away."

"Right, because you're a _god_," Jason deadpans.

"That's one reason," Eros admits. "The other is that I was the one that brought you two together the first time around."

"…_What?"_

"You really think the golden-haired, princeling son of a goddess would even look at some minor frontier king's cast-off son without a push? It took preparation to put him in your path—and then, because you're both always stubborn assholes about it, I had to bring out the arrows."

"I thought you said people don't need your help," Jason says tightly.

"They don't, normally. But with explosive chemistry like Achilleus and Patroklus, it would end up one of two ways: bitterest of rivals or greatest of lovers."

And that…that tracks, actually. It doesn't make it easier to process.

"And why the hell do _you_ get to choose how that goes?" Jason demands. Somehow, it feels less like a violation being fated to be enemies with a person than to be in love with them.

"You know why. There were big things in the making. Things Achilleus had to be alive for, and if Patroklus became his greatest enemy, he wouldn't have made it out of Phthia."

"Bullshit."

"Is it really?" Eros simpers. "Are you going to tell me if Patroklus—or whatever he's called today—didn't take it in his head to take you out, you wouldn't be dead six ways from Sunday?"

Jason opens his mouth to tell him just that, and then pauses.

Because…

Tim was already a planner before he became Robin if everything Talia told him is true. He tangles with people like Cluemaster and fucking Ra's al Ghul on the same level; the latter even puts his intellect and detective skills on the same level as Batman.

Hell, Damian's been sulking for a while about some kind of hit-list for heroes and rogues alike.

_If he didn't religiously toe Bruce's line, Tim could probably be as cold as Amanda Waller._

Jason swallows, imagining Tim at his most cool and calculating, intense eyes transposed across three separate lives. His mouth begins to go dry and he has to fight back the shudder of interest that ripples through his body.

"Along with sending you off your head for bird boy, my blood also nixes that pesky little side-effect of you not being able to remember your previous lives," Eros continues.

"But why?"

"I chose to wake you because of who you were. The strongest warrior of old. Determined. Reckless when it comes to the one you love. Those qualities don't disappear when you're born into a new body, you know."

"And obviously you want something."

Eros's entire demeanor shifts in an instant, going from smug pain in the ass to cold and dangerous. "I want my wife returned to me."

Whatever Jason was expecting, it wasn't that. There's a beat where he repeats it again in his head, trying to make sure he heard right and momentarily thinking it's such an easy request.

Until he remembers.

"You said she was dead."

"In the technical sense, yes. The insecure drama queen that is my mother sent her on a quest to collect a container of beauty from the Queen of the Underworld. Someone replaced it with Stygian Sleep, which consigned her soul to the darkest, loneliest part of the Underworld."

Jason stares, once again wondering if he heard right. "And you want me to get her back. Are you shittin' me?"

"I shit you not."

"How the _hell_ do you expect me to do that?"

"Funny you should mention 'hell'," Eros says with an unkind smile. "Obviously, you have to die first. A particular kind of dead. The kind that, under certain conditions, can be reversible."

Conversations from the past days flicker in Jason's memory and a particular sticking point that the Family has been very divided on.

"Stygian Sleep," he guesses, a pit forming in his stomach.

"Exactly. And here I thought the pretty bird was the smart half of your little duo."

Jason grits his teeth at the reference to Tim, the infection in his blood and a few millennia's worth of latent and now remembered possessiveness boiling within him. He toys briefly with the idea of opening the damn cage and exorcising his frustrations on Eros.

The smug bastard must sense the intent because his smirk grows larger. "I'm game for a tumble if you are, sweetheart. But neither of us really has time for a quickie right now."

"Don't flatter yourself," Jason bites out, breathing through his nose until he can get his focus back on target. The idea of messing around with Eros helps, actually; the raw disgust at being with anyone other than Tim is like a bucket of ice water, dampening his fury. "So, how does me dying bring your wife back?"

"Being exposed to the Sleep will bind you to the same corner of the Underworld as her. With the right talisman in your possession, you can switch places with her."

"_I _switch places with her? Or my soul switches places with her?"

Eros honest to fucking god _claps_ his hands in delight. "Hah! You catch on quick. Yes, she'll need a body, since hers is long gone. With your soul no longer taking up space, the swap will be easy."

The implication hangs in the air. Jason isn't about to just leave it.

"And I wouldn't be coming back."

Eros shrugs. "Nope."

"Then I'm not doing it. There's no benefit for anyone else but you, and I don't just do shit for free."

"Ah, but you see, this is why I needed _you_ to be awake," Eros purrs. "Because the meathead you are now might not have anything he'd be willing to sacrifice his own soul for…but the meathead you _were_ definitely did."

Jason's gut pulls tight; he suddenly knows where this is going.

"If you do this favor for me, a _god_, I can ensure that your beloved is guaranteed an eternity of bliss once he dies. Hades owes me a favor I've never cashed in."

"If he owes you a favor, why don't you get _him_ to get your wife back," Jason growls.

"You don't think I tried that? Even the god of Death is bound by the Styx."

Jason thinks that's awfully convenient, but he also knows it to be true. His mother—_no, Achilleus' mother_—taught him the strength and unyielding nature of the River. Even the gods are unable to break oaths sworn by that flowing water and considering the power they have—considering they can influence where a soul ends up after their human death—that limits them considerably.

Jason swallows.

"And if I still say no?"

The cold, forbidding glint is back in his eyes. "Oh, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I'll weaken the bonds between the two of you and send your love into the arms of an enemy."

Jason is hit by a rather chilling, nauseating image of Tim sitting at the knee of Ra's al Ghul.

"I told you all I need is a certain chemistry between two people," Eros goes on, "and I'm sure there's someone out there that would be happy to take and twist Patroklus or Hephaestion or whatever he's called now until he's so sullied he'll be sent straight to Tartarus. And there's no reincarnating from there. So he'll be in Tartarus and you'll be pining away in the Mourning Fields." He pretends to consider it. "Of course, maybe you guys won't find my diviners before then. In which case, things get messy. Assuming the world doesn't descend into a frenzy of fucking, I may just use him until the flesh falls from his bones and he's too exhausted to take another breath."

Jason slams his fist into the glass. "You _touch_ him, I'll fucking rip your head off."

"No, you won't. You'll be dead by this point. And he still won't end up in the same place as you when you both die."

"If I kill you now, it won't really matter."

"Killing a god…another one-way trip to Tartarus, and you still don't save him any pain. Face it, Helmet Head, I've got you by the proverbial balls. At least if you cooperate, you get something out of it instead of royally shafted."

Jason's hands twitch toward his gun holster, rage blurring his vision for a moment at both the implicit and veiled threats. Beyond the overwhelming sensation of memories trickling back, and the inexorable pull of his thoughts toward Tim and the growing, grasping need to be close to him, it's hard to evaluate the situation from every angle. One thing is for sure, however, he's stuck.

Either Jason accepts this, thus guaranteeing Tim a peaceful afterlife—which, given the amount of shit he's gone through would be a hell of a reward—or Jason can tell the entitled god of Love to fuck off.

_And then die an agonizing death from going mad or taking the easy way out by shooting myself. Neither of which is a good death, if there can be such a thing. _

Neither option ends with Jason's afterlife being anything resembling peaceful.

Not that he ever expected anything like that, even the first time he died.

_Or third time, I guess_.

If all of this only involved him, it would be an easy decision to make. He's never had an issue with throwing himself off the deep end of a bad situation—in any life—but it's _not_ just about him.

"If we're going to be separated anyhow, it's no different if it's in paradise or rotting on the side of the Styx," he says dully.

"Well, if that's what you want to consign yourselves to," Eros allows. "Or rather, what _you_ want to consign your lover to. Imagine, fair Patroklus wasting away his eternity as a shade, crowding for space along the river, his only highlight when some wet-behind-the-ears comes looking for council. Lapping up blood from the dirt like a dog."

The metaphorical knife twists and Jason has to fight down the urge to vomit.

"No."

"Then, there you have it. Easy choice then."

Jason swallows.

Tim is innocent in all of this, in that he doesn't remember any other life but this one. He doesn't know what they once were. But when his life ends, whether in the pursuit of Batman's never-ending crusade, or eighty years old lying in bed, he's going to wake up in the Underworld and remember everything.

If Jason doesn't help Eros, he's in for an eternity of misery.

Imagining the destroyed expression on his face—on Hephaestion, on Patroklus—makes Jason feel as if someone has shoved a knife into his own heart. Neither of them wanted to be separated; an eternity together was the whole point of making their pact, of trying to achieve Elysium three times.

It's a huge decision.

Thousands of years of a pact to be together, and he's contemplating breaking it. He can't just _decide_ this for both of them without Tim—without Patroklus—knowing the stakes, and without hearing his advice.

"Is there a way to wake him, too?" he asks roughly. "To get his memories back?"

"Same way as you," Eros replies. "Mix blood—you've got me in your veins now, so you can even do that yourself if it's one of your kinks."

Jason shudders, at the implication and the information. That would just put Tim in the same boat as Jason, losing his mind and bound for a grisly death.

"Screw that. I'll just tell him," he decides. "He's heard stranger things than that. I'll explain it all to him."

It won't be exactly like telling Patroklus, but they're the same person deep down.

"Sure, that'll work," Eros muses. "Or he might think you're so far gone into your obsession with him that you've become delusional. He might even lock you up in digs like this, and then you can be useless to everyone." He shrugs. "He'll still be of use to me, though. So do whatever you want. Wake him up, don't wake him up, I'll still have someone to offer my deal to."

Jason's stomach sinks, because it's true.

Patroklus—Hephaestion—Tim; he's always been a self-sacrificing little shit, especially when it comes to him. If he thinks it will save Jason—save _Achilleus _or Alexandros—he'll throw himself on the metaphorical sword.

_And Tim's been stabbed enough for three lifetimes. _

The men Jason was before would hate him for doing this. He thinks they would fight the gods themselves, bank on pride and anger to enact their will. They were heroes in their own mind, not fearing mortal challengers or death itself. It's the fundamental difference between them; Jason didn't grow up as a king that was never given limits. He was born in the dirt and has been kicked back there repeatedly in his life. It's taught him exactly what situations are worth it—whether the _collateral damage_ is worth it—and when to regroup, or retreat.

He can't see a way of winning this one. And only one scenario has a half-way acceptable outcome.

"I don't give a shit about what Achilleus or Alexandros want, because I ain't them," Jason snarls. "Barring a few surround-sound memories, they're about as real to me as the kid I was before I died. A memory, that's it."

The growing infection within him burns at the idea of separating himself from Tim any longer; he's already feeling lightheaded and breathless at their distance right now. He ignores it while he can.

Eros bares his teeth. "That your final answer?"

"I'll do it," Jason tells him at last. "I put that kid through enough. I owe him. At least if he checks out of this life early like I did, I'll know he's going somewhere better."

_Even if it is without me._

The invisible vice around his lungs tightens.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin'," Eros replies, striding over to the drawer where he's been getting his food. He opens it, tosses something inside with a clatter. "Keep this on you. It has to be on you when you succumb to the Sleep, otherwise, you and Psyche will both be trapped there and everyone's fucked. And not in the good way."

Warily, Jason opens the drawer on the outside and picks up the small, flat gold coin.

"What is this? Drachma for the ferryman?"

He's only being a little sarcastic; at this point, he wouldn't be surprised.

"Sort of the opposite. Too complicated for your monkey brain to understand," Eros dismisses. "Just don't lose it. For your boyfriend's sake."

Jason's fist closes around the coin.

He tries not to wonder if Tim, or the men he was before, will forgive him for this.

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	12. XII

Tim might be on the verge of panicking.

"It's handled, I promise," he insists again, stomach tightening in dismay at how much Cassie _isn't_ buying it. "We've got a system."

"A system," she repeats in clear disbelief.

"Yes, a system. And yes, it has a few kinks—but it's working! According to Eros, most people that have been infected with his blood completely lose it in days, but it's been two weeks and Jason's still himself."

"And you actually trust Eros isn't just saying things you want to hear?"

"Not even a little," Tim acknowledges. "But considering what I've seen when Jason lapses into his episodes, he could be doing a lot worse right now." He remembers the older man's condition in the containment unit before Tim figured out how to help him. "A _lot_ worse."

"That doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

"Besides, Batman will flip if you guys descend on the city while he's trying to deal with everything."

"Do I look like I care?"

"Seriously, you know how possessive he gets of Gotham, but it's turned up to 11 whenever the Family's involved." Especially when that family's Jason; their issues aside, if Jason's in trouble, Bruce will drop everything for him. "I think piling anything else on him right now would make his brain explode."

Cassie snorts. "Might we worth it then."

"Cassie….I promise. We're okay," Tim insists. "_I'm_ okay. And Jason's so freaked out about this, he's been cooperating more with us now than he has since he came back from the dead. _He_ was the one who reached out for help from B, even. None of us could ever have seen that coming."

Whether she's surprised or not by Tim's words, she continues to look doubtful.

"So where is he now?" she asks instead. "I don't see him with you."

Tim shifts in discomfort, glad she can't see his body language below his head and shoulders. "I did tell you things weren't as bad as they could be. It's not like he has to be constantly glued to my side."

_Doesn't mean he does well when he's far away, though._

"I'm probably in more danger from Dick right now, and we've got him on lock-down. Hopefully not for long, if I can get Eros to help. Or if Jason can help."

Wonder Girl continues to look like she's waiting for a more convincing argument on Tim's end, but he knows she trusts him. After doubting him when he believed Bruce was still alive and lost in time, she's become the first one to believe even his most farfetched ideas and theories.

"Alright," she says at last. "I'll back off. _For now._ But I fully expect you to check in with me on the regular." She jabs a finger in his direction. "If you go radio-silent on me again, we're showing up there whether your or Batman like it or not."

"Got it."

"I mean it, Tim. I expect you to text me every hour or two to check in. And gods all help you if you're downplaying any of this."

"Acknowledged."

She gives him one last worried look and then says, "Okay then. Take care. And I'll talk to you in a few hours."

"Yeah."

"Good luck."

The call ends and Tim lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. That was a close one.

"Does it ever bother you, how good you are at lying?" Steph's voice asks from behind him and he winces.

_Not out of the woods yet, I guess._

"Lies are a necessary evil in our line of work," Tim dismisses, turning around to face her. She's clearly returned to see if Bruce left him in pieces, which is both appreciated and slightly annoying. "You of all people know that."

She snorts, acknowledging the dig, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, she stays her course. "I'm not talking about our line of work; I'm talking about with your friends."

"If it will protect—"

"They're offering to _help_, Tim. I don't know if we're exactly in a position to be looking down on that."

"We're not at that point yet," Tim insists.

"Oh, really? Sure you're not avoiding accepting help because you don't want any other people knowing about your feelings for Jason?"

His cheeks burn. He should have known she wasn't going to just leave it. "That's not it."

"Really? Because honestly, if you're ashamed of this—of him—that's a pretty good indicator that this _thing_ with him isn't a good idea."

"You think I don't know it's not a good idea?!" Tim snaps, his forced calm abandoning him all at once. "Like I don't remember every reason why it can't work? Or everything Jason's done?"

_What he could still do. Because if—_when_ we fix him, it's not like he's going to stick around. Even if he's not sick of looking at me after being forced to want me, he's not about to settle down in Gotham and follow Bruce's rules. _

He clenches his fists, takes a breath and talks himself back down.

"I'm aware of all of this. I just don't find it a good use of my time to fixate on something that's not going to change."

Steph is wary. "Sounds like _you're_ the one under some kind of spell."

"Yeah, well, if I am, then it started years before we met Eros," he mutters, earning a confused look from Steph.

"What do you mean? Like when he first came back?" She appears thoughtful and then shocked. "No _way_. You mean when you were following him and B around as a kid? There's no way—!"

"It was different back then," Tim defends, feeling something inside him loosen a little. He's been holding this one secret back for so long, and with everything going on, something's got to give. "It wasn't what it is now. I was drawn to him. More than Dick. There was something about Jason that…" He shakes his head. "I don't know. I felt a connection with him. I really can't explain it. It should have gone away when he died."

He remembers that dark time, and how it felt like a part of his insides had rotted away upon hearing the news of Jason's death. How he hadn't even been allowed to grieve openly about it because he technically hadn't known the older boy.

_Hell, it should have gone away when he came back._

Even now he can still feel the impact of fists beating him down, of wire cutting into his throat and the searing slice of metal ripping into his chest.

"But it didn't. It just…got buried in everything else that was going on. And then…"

**_"Be my Robin."_**

**_"Hey there, Replacement."_**

**_"I wasn't always the nicest guy in the world to you."_**

**_"Timbers!"_**

**_"Sorry you got dragged into this."_**

**_"Aw, babybird…"_**

**_"You did good."_**

"And then it all came back," Tim concludes, defeated.

Steph is still looking at him, mouth parted in surprise that flounders for a response to that. He decides not to give her the opening for it this time.

"Forget it. As I said, it doesn't matter. The point I'm trying to make is I know it can't go anywhere, and that I don't expect it to. And the fewer people who know about it, the fewer people I have to put up with pitying me when everything goes back to normal."

"And by normal, you mean back to you bottling it up and hurting yourself," Steph reminds him with a scowl.

"I don't know where you've been the past few years but that sort of comes with the territory."

"Tim—"

"I have to update Bruce on what Cassie told me about Eros' arrows."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, awesome subject change. Real subtle."

"We don't have time for subtle," he shrugs and heads for the study. She follows him, and he can practically hear her grinding her teeth at him.

_Guess I should just be glad that Cass isn't here too, or that would have gone very different…_

He knows Steph still isn't satisfied with his answers, but he doesn't care. At least bringing up the mission, he might be able to buy himself an hour or so before she starts again.

Taking the stairs down to the cave, he coaches himself to pretend like this is a normal case and that nothing of note happened down here. That Dick isn't locked up on the lower levels, and that Jason didn't kiss Tim and then run away.

He's gratified to find Barbara is already there when he gets downstairs, just pulling herself into the wheelchair friendly area they designed for the conference table.

"Tim," she greets right away, a wan smile on her face. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm not the one in trouble," he dismisses. "Jason is."

"It's why I'm here, kiddo. I think what he had me working on is related to everything that's happening right now."

"Explain," Bruce commands.

"Shouldn't we wait to get Jason back first?" Tim asks.

"I would, but I get the sense this is time-sensitive," Barbara replies, jaw set as she brings out a thick metal disk that Tim recognizes as a microprojector. "Jason contacted me wanting to see what I could dig up on Carrie Cutter's recent movements. It led us to her involvement in the murder of a girl we believe to be the actual Oracle of Delphi."

"That's not possible," Damian says. "The last Oracle of Delphi disappeared before the fall of Rome."

"More likely, moved underground," Bruce muses.

"Exactly," Barbara agrees. "I searched the web and official data servers and couldn't find any information about the information besides what was in the newspapers. No surveillance, no video, audio—nothing. So I sent Duke to investigate the site." She taps the device on the table and a holographic image appears, projecting a likeness of Signal in front of them at one-eighth the size. "He just arrived there."

"What took so long?" Damian huffs.

"Unlike you rich kids, Greek wasn't one of my high school electives," Duke's voice deadpans across the comm line. "And real-time language translation software doesn't exactly pick up the regional dialects very well."

"Have you had time to go over the scene?" Tim asks.

"Not yet. Better to have you guys standing by instead of having to tell it all again later."

"Even if this oracle said anything, Signal's abilities don't allow him to hear sounds," Bruce points out.

"Witnessing everything firsthand will still give us a better idea of what's going on," Barbara answers.

"Might give _you_ a better idea," Duke replies. "It's just going to give me nightmares."

"What do you see?" Bruce asks.

There's a sigh. "It's not pretty…"

Right now, Tim is glad Jason isn't around. Child deaths hit him hard.

"There's a family sitting down for a meal," Duke relates. "Mother, grandmother maybe—and the kid, it looks like. And she's not just blind like Oracle's reports said—she doesn't have eyes at all."

Steph swears.

"She hears something. Looks up. Mom's heading for the door, and—and that's Cutter. Exactly like the picture in her dossier. She's just walking in and she—okay, that's weird."

"What?"

"She didn't just burst in here with knives drawn. And she's…kneeling?"

"That's weird, right?" Steph asks.

"Oracles were intermediaries for the gods," Barbara says. "It's probably a formality. Like not turning your back on a king or something."

"Cutter's asking her something. Can't really get the right angle to see what it is though. Now the girl's talking." A long pause. "She seems to have a lot to say. And Cutter's hanging on to every word." He glances at something invisible to the rest of them. "Mom and Grandma there seem more worried about all this than she is. If this kid's a seer, you'd think she'd know what's about to happen and try to—oh."

He looks away then, the image of him balling his hands into fists.

There's no need to ask why.

"It was quick," he says after a moment, his voice heavy with anger and something else. "For her, at least. Not so much for the others. And she's leaving now—that's."

He shakes his head, coming back to the present.

"Is there _any_ indication of what the girl said to cause Cutter or whatever god is possessing her to lash out?" Bruce wants to know.

"Not really. I mean, I'll try watching it again but—wait." His image goes utterly still for a few seconds and then startles. "Okay, you guys are _not_ going to believe this."

"Stop drawing things out and get to the point!" Damian commands.

"Robin," Bruce reprimands, earning a scowl but compliance. "What is it, Signal?"

"She's talking in English."

That makes them all look at each other.

"Are you sure?" Tim asks, at the same time Steph wants to know, "How can you be sure?"

"I know I haven't got as much lip-reading practice as you guys, but I've gotten good enough to recognize someone speaking English," Duke deadpans. "And everything this girl said, she said it in English."

"That's not possible," Barbara says, frowning. "No one in the area speaks English. I checked."

"Maybe she's been getting private lesso—whoa." He straightens up then, posture more alert. "Missed that before. She's not looking at Cutter while she's talking like I thought she was."

"That matters?"

"Little bit, I think. Since she's looking at _me_."

Tim's mouth parts a bit. "What?"

"She knew you were going to be there," Barbara realizes.

"Tell us what she's saying," Bruce orders.

"Give me a sec. It's not like an instant replay button, you know."

Everyone waits with bated breath as Duke tenses again and focusses. Then he speaks, careful and halting.

"' The…unseen…darkness…cannot keep…it's captive…for mortal masks…the divine that seeks—'" Duke stops and shakes his head. "It's too fast after that. Going to take some time to get the whole thing."

Barbara breathes out something that could be a curse. "It's a prophecy. An actual prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi."

"Duke, make sure you record every single word exactly as it's said," Bruce orders. "With ancient prophecies, the smallest inaccuracy can change the entire meaning."

"You suddenly believe in prophecies, B?" Duke asks.

"No. I believe in having the most complete picture possible. And rushing you will compromise that. Take the time you need to transcribe what she said and upload it to the system." Bruce straightens up. "We'll figure out the meaning behind it once we have the whole thing."

"Whatever you say, boss. Shouldn't take more than a few viewings for me."

His image sputters and then vanishes.

"I know you're good and all, Bruce, but ancient prophecies were created to be beyond what humans could understand," Barbara points out. "And even if you figure out everything, there's still all the double and hidden meanings."

"We have access to Eros, though," Damian points out. "Have him decipher it."

Bruce shakes his head. "We can't trust that he won't twist the meaning for his own gain."

"Or we can just ask Jason," Tim points out.

"What?"

"Well, apparently part of being infected by the blood of a god means being able to read the languages and word of the gods. So somehow, his brain is operating on the same plane or wiring that Olympian gods do," Tim explains. "Stands to reason he might be able to shed light on things that way." There's an air of hesitation in the air, and he continues, "Besides, we have to find him anyway. Other than the fact he might be hurt right now, Cassie said there's a possibility he could help cure Dick."

"How?" Damian demands immediately.

"Convoluted Olympian reasons," Tim says, not wanting to get into it. "The point is, we need to find Jason before we do anything else."

He meets and holds Bruce's gaze, almost challenging him to find something more important. There's a beat where the older man considers him with the full Batman calculation, and then he nods.

"Then we're going to need the most up to date information on his usual bolt holes. You have the most up-to-date list."

Tim is hesitant.

There are several safe houses he knows of that he's sure no one else in the Family is aware of, not even Barbara. He's kept to himself what he knew because Jason values his privacy. He won't be happy if Tim rats him out.

But then again.

_It's been almost two hours since Jason left, and the last time he was away from me for so long things didn't go well. He could be sitting in a corner with slit wrists for all we know._

His stomach twists painfully at the mental image, and that's what decides him.

"Okay," he says, and slides over the computer to type the addresses and coordinates of the mental list he's been keeping.

Twelve locations pop up on the giant map of Gotham. Bruce's eyebrows draw together as they rove over three that he clearly didn't know about. If anyone thinks it's odd that Tim has such detailed knowledge of Jason's comings and goings, no one mentions it. Instead, Bruce's shoulders set and he turns to the others.

"We'll cover the ground faster if we split up," he declares. "Alfred will stay here in case he comes back to the manor on his own. Stephanie, cover these three—" He gestures to the blinking dots across the East End, "—Damian, the ones off the Financial District. I'll take the docks and Tricorner—"

"What about me?" Tim interrupts.

"You're still benched."

"I _know_ that. But shouldn't I still come alone to calm him down?"

"No. You need to remain in one place so it's easier to bring him to you if required."

Tim wants to argue, but he knows Bruce has a point. Whether Jason elects to return to the manor on his own or the others find him, they need to know where to bring him.

"It's just as well," Barbara says. "We need to speak to Eros. We can go to Tim's place and wait there."

"He's unlikely to be honest," Bruce says.

"Maybe, but even lies can give us an idea of the truth. You see it a lot in historiography. Lots of sources are biased, the trick is to get as many as possible to form the most accurate picture possible."

Tim pounces on the opportunity to do _something_.

"We can get Eros to tell us what all this means, and then we ask Jason when we find him. He'll be able to fill in anything that might have gotten 'lost' in Eros' version."

"Assuming he's even lucid anymore," Steph asks. "How do we know he hasn't devolved into a gibbering idiot already?"

"He hasn't," Tim says immediately.

"And you know this _how_?"

He recalls the mysterious blades Jason was so evasive about. "I just do."

Stephanie's eyes narrow, and he knows she's likely trying to decide how much of his confidence is justified and how much is due to his feelings.

_As if I'd be that unprofessional, _he thinks in annoyance as he goes to copy the recording of Duke's findings.

"Let's go," Bruce says and turns toward the stairs. Then he pauses. "And Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Civvies only. I haven't changed my mind about that."

Tim rolls his eyes but decides to allow it—for now. "Okay, Bruce."

"Come on, kiddo, let's go," Barbara says, wheeling toward the elevator. "Time to interrogate a god."

He makes a face. "Are you sure you want to subject yourself to that? He's kind of a jerk."

"I spent the last ten years dealing with immature man-children. This will be a breeze."

**⁂**

"Now that we've got the broad terms of the agreement sorted out, there is one tiny, slight hiccup," Eros says.

"Only the one?" Jason retorts, unimpressed, rubbing at the site of the wound which started all of this.

"Only one that matters," the Olympian says. "See, I did have a vial of Stygian Sleep on me—always do, since you never know when you need to make a quick escape from a family dinner."

"Right…"

"But like I said, I wasn't expecting you two to burst into my digs—just like I wasn't expecting bird boy to lock me in this glorified hamster cage. So that vial is still hidden in one of the pieces on display at my warehouse."

Jason groans. "Which was repossessed by the cops right after we busted it up."

"Probably."

"So now a deadly Olympian poison is in evidence lock-up at GCPD headquarters?"

"Possibly? Though they won't even know what it is or where it is. It's hidden in something that looks like a stone slab, so I doubt they'll be cracking it open looking for drugs or anything."

"It still leaves me with the problem of gettin' in there and grabbin' it, doesn't it?" Jason snarls.

He paces a bit back and forth, trying to think up the best way to get inside without attracting attention. He's got his own base of operations under the building, but he's not keen on potentially burning that location just for the sake of finding Eros' lost property.

_Assuming it's even there in the first place. Maybe it's still back at the docks; they might not have confiscated everything yet. Unlikely, but possible. I'll have to go there first. Possibly run into whatever scavengers or light security force is hanging about._

Not something he wants to do when he's this compromised.

"Look at that, I can practically see the cogs spinning behind that sexy brow," Eros says. "Hopefully whatever you come up with is more successful than your last plan."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well, in your dramatic entrance, you seem to have forgotten to let me know how the ritual went. Since you're here and my arrows aren't, obviously you failed."

"And got shot for my trouble," Jason grumbles. "Speakin' of, any idea why your all-powerful arrows wouldn't work on me, but they did on my br—on _Nightwing_?"

"The golden arrows can't invalidate a match that they're responsible for creating," Eros says. "To do that, you'd have to be hit first with a leaden arrow to invalidate the feelings."

"But we weren't hit with any arrows this lifetime. Think we would have noticed by now."

"Not in _this_ life. Keep up, precious. You were joined together with Patroklus since the first time you were alive. Normally, that kind of bond vanishes with death—the whole Lethe deal, right?"

"…_Normally_."

"But you died loving each other. Your last thoughts in both your lives have always been on each other. That's powerful magic, older than me even. It seems to have given you a measure of protection your _Nightwing_ doesn't have, by confusing the diviners into thinking you're still matched."

"So I'm what, _immune_?" That could be a good thing.

"Maybe? I wouldn't put money on it. You probably just got lucky. If you get hit by the lead one next time, it could sever even that. So, try not to get shot again, m'kay?"

"Great advice," Jason seethes.

Though if he didn't have any kind of connection to Tim, it would be that much simpler to foil the machinations of this entitled godling and whatever entity is working with Carrie Cutter.

The instant the thought enters his mind, he wants to throw up. The idea of hating Tim now—even though he can remember what that felt like—sends a visceral terror slamming into him with the same force of the Joker's crowbar.

So much for having any kind of advantage in this whole situation.

_Damn it, what am I even supposed to _do_ about Tim?_

His personal feelings (and the supernatural infection) aside, the best thing would be to avoid him. He's not quite sure how he'll be able to interact with or even just be around the younger man now that he knows the truth. Especially since with every passing minute he's remembering more bits and pieces of lives long forgotten—he recalls the promises they made each other, can remember the feel of Tim's skin beneath his fingers and the taste of his lips—

_Stop it. _

No, he can't tell him.

Tim, like both of his past lives, will put what he thinks are Jason's needs in front of his own. Worse, it will all be him _humoring_ him, which puts a sour taste in Jason's mouth. The idea of devaluing the bond between them that has spanned time and space and civilizations is almost as painful as the knowledge that bond is about to be severed—and by him, no less.

There's a distant sound of a motor, the hum of the secret garage door of the Nest opening, and Jason tenses.

_Shit. Tim._

He needs to get out of here before he's noticed.

Except, he can't seem to make his limbs move.

If he were completely himself, he could be out of here in an instant without even evidence that he was here. But—

But _Tim_ is close. He's nearby and—

And Jason knows that he's not going to get anything done unless he gets a fix, something to hold him over while he figures out the next step in his plans.

_Shit, now I'm comparing him to drugs. What the hell._

Somehow, the decision to not leave before Tim allows him some measure of movement.

Jason shoves the gold coin into his pocket—he can figure out what to do with it later—and forces himself to act. He has to delete whatever surveillance footage is on the Nest from the last hour before Tim arrives.

He can't have him knowing what's going on. Not unless Jason can think of a better explanation than, 'hey, by the way, reincarnation is real, and we used to be in love with each other and I'm pretty much looking at a suicide mission in my near future.'

_That definitely won't go over well._

He looks up as a car pulls in, tires barely squealing to a stop before Tim is out the door.

"Jason!"

He's in civvies now, less covered in grime and bruises than before, and instead of a mask, he's wearing dark shades to hide his eyes.

Jason swallows the growing lump in his throat and fights down the temptation to hurry forward and wrap his arms around the smaller man. Seeing Tim now—now that he's _remembering_—Jason is reliving moments long forgotten, soft laughter in his ear and fingers running through his hair and warmth and safety and—

He inhales sharply, shaking away the images.

_That's over, _he tells himself as Tim comes to a stop a few paces in front of him.

"You're here?" His surprised expression blossoms with what Jason can only describe as relief, even though he can't understand the reason behind it. He doesn't remember their pasts, he has no reason to care about Jason beyond the parameters of this mission.

"Yeah," he replies cautiously, folding his arms and taking a half-step backward.

He needs to keep his distance, no matter how much his fingers are twitching to thumb Tim's lower lip, how much he wants to wrap him in his arms, bury his face in the crook of his neck and—

"I needed a face-to-face with the source of all our problems," he says, voice hoarse as he nods toward Eros.

"He was very rude," the Olympian agrees. "Told me he'd kill me and everything. Isn't that right, _Jason_?"

Tim barely spares a glance at Eros, face still pulled into a concerned frown as he steps forward. "I was worried. Driving in your condition, you could have gotten into another accident."

"Someone gave me a lift."

"Oh. Okay. That's…" Tim trails off, perhaps seeming a little lost before his features arrange themselves into careful blankness. "I'm glad you're alright."

He reaches out to put his hand on Jason's shoulder, and Jason pulls back.

"Not a good idea."

"I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help."

"Really? Have you looked in the mirror? Your pale and sweating, your eyes are bloodshot and your knees look like they're about to give out under you."

"I'm fine."

"You're _not_."

"Well, neither are you," he shoots back. "Why are you even here? You shouldn't be anywhere near me after I…"

He trails off, remembering suddenly that they're not alone.

"You just shouldn't be here," he finishes, a little lamely.

Eros is watching all of this with a smarmy grin on his face, and when Jason hears a noise behind him, he turns in time to see Babs just lowering herself out of the passenger seat of the car into her wheelchair. She's also wearing dark tinted glasses to hide her identity, and he sort of wishes he had thought to do the same before staggering in here to confront the Olympian.

Tim continues to frown at Jason like he's trying to figure out a puzzle, and then his expression softens a bit.

"Let's talk, okay?" he offers. "_Just_ talk. Like adults, okay?"

"Oh, this should be good," Eros says, and the asshole actually rubs his hands together.

This time, Tim shoots him a glare. "Not here."

"Take your time," Barbara says, wheeling closer to the containment unit and glaring up at Eros. "Tweety Bird and I need to have a little chat anyway. There are a few things that probably make more sense from the original source."

From the way she's looking at the Olympian, if it were anyone else, Jason would feel sorry for him; considering what he's holding over Jason's head, he kind of hopes Barbara has him crying before the end of the night.

Before he can get too detailed with his inner imaginings of how to make the god of love miserable, the hair on the back of his neck and arms raises and Tim walks passed him—worryingly close to him—and heads for the entrance to his apartment. "Coming?"

And he really, _really_ shouldn't.

But the hunger that isn't hunger is stronger, starving just to be in the same general radius as the younger man.

_How am I supposed to sneak off to find Eros' supply of Stygian Sleep if I can't even think around this?_

He tells himself it's purely tactical, that he's just getting his fix of being around Tim, enough to make getting out of here and getting what he needs to complete his deal with Eros.

"Fine," he replies, voice strained.

He follows Tim out of the Nest, keeping a carefully calculated distance between them as long as he can. Once inside the apartment, Tim heads for the kitchen and opens the fridge.

"You hungry?" he asks, as casually as if Jason just happened by for a visit—except it's not casual, because it's never happened. "After everything that's happened tonight, you need to keep your energy up." He pauses and then looks apologetic. "I mean the fight with Carrie and your magic swords, not the, uh, other—"

"I'm sorry," Jason blurts out. "About what happened."

"Jason—"

"I wasn't thinkin'—shit, _obviously_ I wasn't thinkin'—but I figured I had a handle on the impulses."

"It's not—"

"You shouldn't even want to be around me right now."

"Jason, it's _okay_," Tim insists, slamming the fridge door and raising his voice. "I just didn't think you were at the point where you…I didn't think you wanted—"

"Well, neither did I!"

Jason's still not sure if it was the infection that prompted him to make a move on Tim, or the latent memories trying to get out. If anything, the kiss is what woke him up, so maybe it was the latter.

In which case, it's even more important to make sure it doesn't happen again.

"We're not doing this…_this_ anymore," he decides gesturing between them. "You've already let me push the boundaries on this one way too far, and you shouldn't be expected to let someone full-on grope you—"

"You didn't grope me."

"Whatever I did, it wasn't okay because you don't want me to—"

"I want you to," Tim says, so quickly that he blushes, looking like he surprised himself.

Jason freezes, wondering if he's hearing things. He takes an extra few seconds to review that. "What."

"Not like _that_," Tim rushes to explain, words tripping over each other; he glances away. "I mean—it's just…it's not as big an issue as you're making it. Don't look at me like that, it's _not_ a big deal. In the grand scheme of stuff you've done to me, kissing me doesn't even register at the top of the Horrible Things That Could Happen List."

"Stop tryin' to make me feel better. You suck at it."

"I'm not just trying to make you feel better. It really could be worse." His words continue to rush into each other, betraying his obvious discomfort. "And I know you won't read into it beyond this being me helping you, and we're all aware of your views on consent, so I know you didn't mean anything by it. And it's not like if I had to make out with Ra's al-Ghul, right?"

Jason growls, remembering Eros' threat. "Thanks for that scarring imagery, and the comparison with the creepiest creeper we know. That makes me feel so much more on board with this."

"The point is if it's something that helps you, if this grounds you…if you want to…whatever it is, I'm okay with it."

And doesn't _that_ just tear into Jason?

"There's two people involved in this, Tim!" he snaps. "And _I'm_ not okay with it just because it's supposed to help me. If you even _knew_…"

_Knew what I want to do with you. _To_ you. What we've already done, and you don't even _remember_—!_

"Look, we just can't, okay?"

Tim lets out a frustrated puff of air. His cheeks puff in a way that has Jason swallowing hard, contemplating how suspicious it would seem if he took off back to the cave.

"Okay, let's try a compromise here," Tim says after a minute. "What if we made a list?"

Jason blinks and can't help glancing back. "What?"

"Of things that we can both agree beforehand are…acceptable. If I'm telling you beforehand _exactly_ what is and isn't okay, then maybe you won't feel so much like you're taking advantage if you need to—if you need to do something to anchor yourself."

"Tim…"

"No, listen—you were right before. Me just giving a blanket statement that everything's okay, it isn't me being honest with you. This way, we can both have boundaries." Jason is already gearing up to protest until Tim adds, "It might not be a long-term solution, but it's something, right? And anything _not_ on the list, you can just ask or try to remember if you have the sudden compulsion to do something. And if I'm not comfortable with it we can—I don't know, try to redirect somehow."

"You mean if I suddenly get the urge to stick my tongue down your throat?" Jason deadpans. "Give you a warnin' so you can knock me out?"

Tim's cheeks flare pink. "Um…not…exactly. But yeah. That's sort of the idea."

"Except I couldn't stop myself before," he points out. "What makes you think I'll be able to now?"

Tim thinks about it, bites his lip—_oh, don't do that, _please_ don't do that_—and then shrugs. "I trust you."

_So _not_ a good answer, kid._

As if he can sense the direction of his thoughts, Tim narrows his eyes and juts his chin out. "I do."

"This is such a bad idea," Jason croaks.

"Got any better ones? Whether we manage to cure you or not, we're on limited time here. We've all been trained to withstand torture for days. I know you can do this."

_Just what every guy wants to hear—that the person they're hitting on is comparing it to torture. _

And that's what it would be, too, for Jason at least.

But he's still thinking about it—gods above, he's thinking about it.

Because this is Patroklus and Hephaestion all over; this is _Tim_. Always has a plan, always has a scenario and an answer to everything. He means it as an olive branch, but Jason can't help seeing it as a lifeline.

_I should just tell him. If I tell him, we can figure this out together._

But he can't.

Because he remembers.

Letting Patroklus plan, giving him the reigns of control, allowing him to know the full story, that's only ever gotten him killed. In both their previous lives he planned everything in their lives around Achilleus or Alexandros' legacy—around his glory and survival.

At least keeping Tim in the dark will keep his mind on the case—on stopping Carrie and her unnamed god friend from unleashing whatever trouble they're seeking on Gotham. The city needs Tim's brains focused on that, not on Jason's past lives' feelings.

As it is, in the long run, it won't matter. There might be a cure for Jason's condition, but Eros all but told him he's not going to be the one benefitting from it. Even if they find the diviners beforehand, Eros has made it clear what will happen.

_What's the point of bringing it all up when there's no getting out of it?_

Jason's pretty much signed a new death warrant for himself and he won't just be going to the green paradise of his memories when this is over. And he won't be seeing Tim or any version of him ever again.

He studies Tim now, watching him shift uncomfortably as he waits for Jason's response to his plan. A plan that is hopeful and sweet in the face of a life they both know is anything but. Ignorant of the entire situation, Tim is still trying to give Jason as long as he can as himself.

_Which, if I'm going to be spending an eternity alone in some fresh patch of hell…why can't I have a few days?_

Being with Tim as long as possible, even if Tim doesn't remember the truth of it all…maybe that would be okay.

He feels his misgivings ebb away—_gods, I'm weak_—and allows himself to relax.

"So," he begins, tentative, "what would be a definite 'no' for you?"

Tim's eyes widen incrementally, surprise flashing across his features, but he is quick to hide it. He obviously wasn't expecting Jason to give in.

Tilting his head to one side in thought, he is silent a further few seconds, and then says, "Don't slap my ass."

It's so unexpected that Jason can't help the startled laugh. "Really?"

"I mean, I _might_ forgive that sort of thing in private, but in front of other people definitely not. I always found it kind of tacky." Tim pulls out one of the stools along the kitchen island and sits down in a careful attempt to be casual.

"I'm insulted you think that I'd slap someone's ass in any situation."

"I've _seen_ you slap Roy Harper's ass."

"Bullshit."

"You know how much surveillance footage we have archived of you and the Outlaws?"

"Fine. _Stalker_." But the word is more affectionate than anything else. "But to be fair, it's Roy. He does it too. It's a…a brother's thing."

_Mostly. Except not really. And I really hope that all that surveillance footage doesn't extend to the interior of Kori's ship…_

"Really."

"Uh-huh."

"And how many times have you and Dick played 'slap-the-ass'?" The minute the words are out, Tim turns red and makes a face like he's just had the oxygen sucked out of his lungs; Jason himself is having a bit of trouble breathing. "I did _not_ mean it like that,."

His face falls into his hands.

"Gods, I hope not. Way to add to the list of shit I need therapy to deal with." Noting the younger man's utter mortification, Jason decides it's high time they moved this discussion along. "Okay. Fine. So, what else? No mackin' on you, obviously."

"I told it's fine."

"I can tell by your tone it's not."

He gets a frustrated look for that, and then Tim rolls his eyes and huffs. "I'd prefer if you _have_ to, not to do it around anyone in the Family. We've got enough issues to deal with beyond the commentary and worried staring. But more than that, I'm not a huge fan of PDA. It's uncomfortable."

Jason thinks about it and nods.

"I guess I can understand that," he muses. "You get followed around by the paparazzi all the time. Sucks havin' people's attention on you all the time."

"It's not just that. When I was a kid, my parents…well, they just were never the overly affectionate type. I'm not saying I was deprived," he is quick to add when Jason's brows begin to draw together, "I was just used to a more reserved kind of affection. Because in public, it all became an act. The spotlight was on us to look overly warm and loving and…it was basically the Drake version of Brucie."

Jason gags.

"Ever since then, I try to avoid having people look at me like I'm their entertainment unless I've planned it out that way."

There's a wary, almost vulnerable edge to Tim's words that make Jason think that this is the first time he's ever told anyone this rather personal bit of information. He's simultaneously grateful to have Tim's trust, while at the same time wondering if this is just him exposing himself to make Jason feel better about his own vulnerabilities.

"What else?" he asks, hesitant but at the same time desperate for him to keep talking. To keep opening up to him.

Tim thinks again. "Uh…don't touch my neck."

"Huh?"

"Like, don't rest your arms along the back of my neck, or hold it with your palm. Shoulders are okay, but my neck, that's…I don't like it."

And that's…oddly specific. Before he can fully form a question about why that is, he's hit by another flash of memory. This one, however, isn't of warmth or safety, but of Jason himself holding Tim up high, wire wrapped around his throat and choking the life out of him.

His heart thuds in dismay and realization.

"I'm sorry."

"Jason—"

"What I did to you wasn't right."

"We've been over this already—"

"We'll never be completely over it," Jason cuts him off. "It's always going to be there, in the background of everythin'." He clenches his fists. "I was puttin' my anger on the wrong person, and you got hurt because of it."

"You weren't in your right mind back then."

"And how many creeps have we locked away for crimes they committed when they weren't 'in their right mind'?" Jason counters.

"The difference is that before this situation—before what was _done to you_—you were a good person. You protected people—you protected kids like me. And you're still a good person where it counts."

Jason recalls three blood-soaked lifetimes that disprove everything Tim just said. "I was never a good person."

"Agree to disagree."

"No, there's no disagreein', there's just fact. I've been damaged since before I was stupid enough to get caught by the Bat." Jason takes a step back. "We need to forget about this. After everythin' I did to you, this is a bad idea—"

"Jason, for god's sake would you—" Tim stops talking all of a sudden, touches the comm in his ear. Then he scowls. "On our way."

"What's going on?"

"Babs needs us back," Tim replies in a flat, irritated tone. Clearly he's not happy to have been interrupted. "Duke's sending along what he found in Delphi. That's actually another reason we wanted to find you." He levels a sharp look at Jason. "I think it's important we continue this conversation, but not now."

"Small miracles," Jason mutters under his breath.

"Probably not. Based on what Duke and Babs have said, apparently there's a prophecy involved in all this."

"Of fuckin' course there is," Jason groans. "Does it say I got a starrin' role in it?"

_I swear, if this involved me being a Chosen anything again, I'm out. I've done enough of that for three lifetimes…_

"I guess we're about to find out."

Tim stands up and heads for the door to his base, and then pauses to look back at Jason. He raises an eyebrow, somehow challenging and questioning at the same time, and then holds his hand out.

Jason stares at it for a moment, almost the same way he would assess an enemy for hidden weapons, but it's just Tim's hand and he hasn't touched him in _hours_...

Every argument against it has already crumbled before he's reached out to lace his fingers through Tim's.

"You fight dirty," he accuses, weary.

"You like it."

_That's entirely the problem, babybird._

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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_Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates-or just to drop me a line :)_


	13. XIII

Tim feels a little bad about using Jason's skin hunger against him but only for a moment. Any concern about that vanishes when he peeks back at Jason as they walk, and observes the color returning to the other man's cheeks. The hand clasped in his own stops shaking the longer they touch.

Tim has never been one to enjoy holding hands—often he's felt uncomfortable or self-conscious, worrying about sweaty fingers or whether the other person might consider it lame—but this doesn't feel like that.

This feels _right._

It's actually concerning how right it feels, especially in light of his recent discussion with Steph.

_Stop it. This isn't about you. It's about putting Jason at ease. _

They return to the containment unit to find Barbara facing down Eros—an impressive feat considering she's in a wheelchair and he's the one looking down on her. Her face is drawn in irritation, and he's gratified to see that Eros seems put-out about something.

"Took you long enough. Cherry here says she's got a bonafide prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and wouldn't share it until you got back." He eyes their entwined hands and leers. "I take it the domestics are going well?"

"Get bent," Tim snaps in irritation as Jason tugs his hand back so fast he might as well have been burned.

"Only if you do the honors, pretty boy."

Jason growls and makes a move for his gun, but Tim reaches out to stop him.

"Can you not tease him?" he demands of Eros. "Especially when the only reason he's like this is because of you."

"Oh, if only you knew…"

Before Tim can comment on that, Jason interrupts.

"What's the feathered freak talkin' about?" he snaps, radiating tension. "What prophecy?"

"The one Signal was able to recover from the girl that was killed," Barbara says coolly. "He transcribed it and sent it along. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep acting like a child?"

This she directs at Eros, who actually does look chastised a beat, before gracing her with a cool smile.

"I guess it _is_ apropos if you do the honors, darlin'," Eros says with a cool smile. "Is it ironic or coincidental if someone who stole the title of oracle interprets a prophecy from the actual Oracle of Delphi?"

"Who cares? This whole situation is making me hate both irony and coincidence," Tim says.

"It's making me wonder if there _are_ any coincidences," Jason mutters, eyes fixed on Eros in intense dislike.

Barbara offers him an identical look, before thumbing the screen of her phone and opening her incoming messages.

Then she begins to read:

"_The Unseen darkness cannot keep its captive thrice for mortal masks the divine that seeks its reward in the city where dark nights conceal the greatest of secrets._

_"Crossed beneath the stars when the Rager's Moon is full, eternal freedom is neigh upon the eleventh moment of the small sacrifice of the virgin gifts triumph to the prisoner and that which drowned in Lethe's tears is reborn._

_"But take heed, for the winged scion of Cythera, willingly blinded by the veil of vengeance revealed by Discord's most cursed boon, awakens the warrior guided by the Physicians heir._

_"Fury dooms the fair, heralding the return of magnificent Alexandros and one whose name is painted in blood and stone._

_"Greatest of loves, damned by the gleam of a golden barb, torn asunder by jealousy and parted by cruel death, they will stand against Strife._

_"Titans will rise and one who Death names hero, betrayed yet shielded by love, will sunder the chains of Aidoneus and avenge the victim of grievance. One will be born anew, the other bound eternally to Stygian Darkness."_

There is silence as she puts the phone down, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

"What?" Tim says.

"I see your 'what' and raise you a 'the fuck'," Jason adds. "Does any of that make sense to anyone else? Because it don't make sense to me."

"Blame my uncle," Eros says, apparently annoyed.

"What? Why?" Tim wants to know. "Which one's he?"

"Apollo," Barbara says, still considering the puzzling words on the screen. "Aside from being a sun god, he was also the god of prophecy."

"Talking in riddles is his favorite pastime," Eros agrees. "It's a pain in the ass."

"I'll bet," Tim agrees. "We've got someone like that here in Gotham."

"Yeah, and he's a frequent guest of Arkham, so what's that tell you?" Jason grumbles.

"That people who come up with riddles have too much time on their hands."

"There's a reason the Oracles of Delphi didn't put their predictions into simple words," Barbara points out. "If you give people information about what's coming, how do you know you're not ensuring it will or won't come to pass? It was important for them to be seen as the medium of the message and not an agent.

"By keeping information vague, it would seem like they were allowing a querant the chance to defy fate, while at the same time allowing fate to take its natural course, whatever that might be," Eros agrees. "Ans it was good insurance. Even Oracles needed to cover their asses. You were less likely to get your head lopped off by a visiting king that received news he didn't want to hear. And whatever the outcome, they could still say, 'we told you so'." He considers Barbara. "You know, I don't usually find brainy sexy, but you might just turn me."

"I'm thrilled," she deadpans.

"So what's all this supposed to mean, anyway?" Tim asks, trying to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand.

"It could mean anything. Though to start with, that bit about 'unseen darkness', that's an epithet for the Underworld in old Hellenic documents."

"We called it that in the old days," Eros confirms.

"And then there's the part about someone captive in Hades."

"I thought Hades was a person?" Tim says.

"It is. But it's also a place." Jason tells him.

"It depends on what story and what source you're drawing from," Barbara elaborates. "And what translation."

"What about the next bit? About mortal maskin' the divine?"

"Could that mean whoever's possessing Carrie Cutter?" Tim suggests. "We've already established she's got help from a god, and if they're inhabiting her body even for short amounts of time, it's a pretty effective mask."

"No doubt," Eros agrees. "Not so sure about that part with dark nights, but I guess it's referring to this cesspool you people call a city."

Tim, Jason and Barbara exchange glances, knowing exactly how dark nights and secrets relate to their city.

_Maybe Duke misheard. It might not be dark 'nights' so much as dark 'knights'. Which makes sense, considering Bruce and Dick both have that title depending on the day. _

"Safe to say it's Gotham," Tim confirms. "So all that begs the question, do you have any idea who's locked in the Underworld trying to get out?"

Eros snorts. "The better question is who _isn't_ locked in the Underworld."

Jason is glaring furiously at Eros, clearly growing tired of his evasive and snarky answers. The way his fists clench, Tim suspects he's close to throwing a punch at the glass in frustration. Not something Tim wants to see, especially given Jason's injuries from their altercation with Carrie Cutter and Dick haven't even been seen to yet.

_God, it feels like it was days ago but it was only hours. He probably came right here to confront Eros without even looking after himself._

He has to put that out of his mind for now. Deciphering any clues in the prophecy takes momentary precedence.

"…. A lot of myths end with someone displeasing a god and getting sent to Tartarus, so he has a point," Barbara is saying, her thumbs busily texting something on her phone.

"So that's not going to tell us anything," Tim decides. "What about the 'crossed beneath the stars' part?"

"More of the same in terms of pinpointing when everything is supposed to happen," Eros says.

"Which is _when_?"

"November twenty-third," Barbara says, frowning at the small screen in her hand.

Jason looks askance. "How d'you know?"

"'Moon' equates to month, and another name for Zeus was the Rager," she replies. "So, Zeus's month. According to the Athenian calendars we still have access to, Zeus's month was Maimakterion—which in modern times would fall somewhere between November and December. And the next full moon—" She holds up her phone, showing a lunar calendar for the month, "—falls on November twenty-third. It's the only full moon that falls during Maimakterion."

Eros nods along in approval. "What she said."

"And the small hour?"

"Midnight."

"So, whatever's supposed to happen is going to happen eleven minutes after midnight…assuming that's what moment means," Tim muses, glancing at his own phone calendar. "That's this Friday."

"Five days from now," Jason agrees, and side-eyes Tim. "We've all had shorter deadlines."

"That's not necessarily referring to your deadline, sweet cheeks," Eros reminds him. "I figure you have about half that."

"No thanks to you."

"You know, the last Jason I knew wasn't this whiny."

"Children," Barbara says sharply. "Let's stay focused, shall we? I'm concerned about this virgin sacrifice part—specifically the part where it ensures success for someone we probably don't want to succeed."

"Cutter did kill that girl," Tim reminds them. "Maybe it was some kind of offering, so she'd be successful at whatever she's trying to do."

"It's a good an explanation as anything else," Eros agrees, examining his nails. "We always did love our human sacrifices. And a virgin _does_ increase the likelihood of something working out to your advantage."

"You're a piece of shit," Jason growls. "That's a kid you're talking about!"

"And as an Oracle of Delphi she's entitled to an eternity of bliss once she enters the Underworld," Eros dismisses. "It's a better end than _some people_ are entitled to."

Jason's eyes blaze as if that's a personal insult. Tim can certainly empathize.

"What about the second part?" he prompts. "What's Lethe?"

"The Lethe was the river the souls drank from to forget their previous lives before being reincarnated," Barbara explains.

"The Ancient Greeks believed in reincarnation? But I thought that was something from the Far East?"

"Many ancient cultures had a concept of reincarnation beyond the Hindu and Buddhist mythos," Barbara explains. "Just look at the belief systems of the indigenous peoples of North America and you'll see countless examples. And _they_ didn't have any contact with the civilizations of Asia during the time when those faiths were evolving."

Beside Tim, Jason is as stiff as a board and appears to be having trouble breathing. Automatically, Tim edges closer to him, and though he doesn't outright take his hand—he leans into him, nudging him with his shoulder.

Jason's eyes dart to him for a moment, and he relaxes incrementally.

"How does that relate here though?" Barbara wants to know.

"Maybe the prisoner forgot something," Eros suggests, not sounding very interested.

"Or maybe whoever's tryin' to escape Hades as _made_ to forget something," Jason counters darkly.

"Only mortals can be made to forget by drinking from the Lethe," Barbara says. "The prisoner could have been human. Salmoneus or Tantalus or one of the Dainads."

Tim doesn't even get a chance to question who _they_ are before Eros interrupts. "Actually, it's a little broader than just mortals. More like mortals, demigods that haven't consumed ambrosia, giants, hybrids—"

"So again, we're back to a broad spectrum of people it could be talkin' about," Jason complains. "Great. Is there anyone or anything in this stupid prophecy that isn't doublespeak?"

"Well, the next verse is pretty self-explanatory. Obviously, we're talking about yours truly," Eros says, pointing at himself. "What other 'winged son' do you know from mythology?"

"A case could be made for Pegasus."

"No, it's Eros," Tim says. "Cythera's another name for Aphrodite." Everyone looks at him in surprise.

"How do _you_ know that?" Jason asks, but where the emphasis ought to suggest incredulity, he sounds impressed.

Tim tries not to bask in that.

"My parents used to visit the island of Cythera a lot when they weren't on business trips, especially before I was born. It was their favorite vacation destination. Full of history, not touristy—they didn't like having to socialize with people when they were on vacation."

Tim falls silent then, remembering sitting in his living room with his parents, pouring over their vacation photos of the Mediterranean island while they told stories. They'd always promised to take him one day…

He glances up and notices the others are watching him now—Eros with a sharp, calculating gaze while Jason appears concerned. As for Barbara, she seems to sense his discomfort, because she navigates them past the lull. "Okay, so if it's Eros, what are you wanting revenge for? It's not exactly your M-O."

"I can think of a few people who have it coming," Eros answers. "Starting with my mother."

"What'd she do?" Tim asks.

"Do you have a few centuries worth of couch time?"

"Isn't she the reason your wife died?" Barbara wants to know. "In the myth, she survived, but Tim told me that's not what happened in reality."

Eros expression goes cold.

"That's _right_," Tim remembers; he and Eros had this conversation a few days ago, didn't they? "Aphrodite is the one who sent Psyche to the underworld."

Eros bares his teeth. "One of her many sins, but not the only one."

"Then couldn't the prophecy maybe be referring to her? Psyche, I mean? Maybe she's the prisoner."

"Are you implying my wife is the one behind your Cupid's actions?" Eros growls. "Because that's impossible."

"How would you know? It could be—"

"Because she died a _mortal_! Her soul is mortal and wouldn't have the power to escape the Underworld in any capacity! Furthermore, Psyche would never kill or arrange the death of anyone! She was good and pure of soul and that's why I fell in love with her."

"That's not what I read," Barbra says. "Didn't you prick yourself on one of your golden arrows while watching her?"

"I pricked myself _because_ I fell in love with her," he snaps. "I've already told _Jason_ here that the arrows only work to magnify emotions that are already there."

"That makes no sense. You liked her before you made yourself fall in love with her?"

"Look, you know the story: Psyche was beautiful. So much so, that the idiots in her kingdom started treating her like a living goddess, bringing the gifts meant for my mother to this human princess. You can guess how well _that_ went over."

"Right. She sent you to make her fall in love with a horrible beast."

"Yeah, one of Diomedes mares. Gorgeous animals—people would stop and stare at them for hours. Also, vicious, flesh-eating beasts. Just getting to close to one of those and it would have ripped her to shreds—and she would have stood there and _let _it." Eros' expression becomes soft, eyes faraway at the memory. "If she had been some arrogant, selfish royal I would have let it happen. But I watched her for days while I tried to put her in the path of that thing. And everything she did was just _good_ and _kind_. I had never seen as pure a soul like hers." He shakes his head. "The idea of a girl like that being sent to her death just because a bunch of idiot humans had the audacity to praise her alongside my mother didn't seem fair."

"And you're all about fair, aren't you?" Jason sneers.

Tim has to agree; if Eros cared about fair, he would have been a lot more helpful about curing Jason and wouldn't have demanded they find his diviners beforehand.

"I was young and stupid, and I didn't realize the world didn't work that way," Eros dismisses. "Even for gods. I thought my mother would never want to harm me—and so if I put Psyche under my protection, she couldn't hurt her. And if I could show my mother what a good wife Psyche was, even if she was unable to see me, it would prove the point." He snorts. "It didn't exactly go my way."

"And there's no way her soul could have somehow been corrupted when she died?"

"The Underworld is stagnant. There's no such thing as change or time there. Everything occurs both in one moment and in all moments there."

"So you're saying a soul going in would remain in the same state as it was when it died," Barbara posits.

"Exactly. How else do you expect the judges to judge souls if they kept changing after death? It'd be a headache.

"Then if it's not Psyche, who else can you think of that it might be?"

"It might be more than one person," Tim suggests. "That line about 'greatest of loves'—what if that's why Carrie's been targeting couples? She hears the prophecy—or whoever's riding along inside her hears the prophecy—and thinks there's a couple out there that's going to stand against her. She could be trying to eliminate potential threats to her end goal."

"If so, we need to decipher her criteria for choosing her victims. You already said it didn't seem like they had anything in common."

"We'll have to check again. Maybe now that we've got this prophecy, something new will jump out."

"We skipped a whole verse," Jason points out. "The 'warrior guided by the physician's heir'. Any ideas?"

Eros shrugs. "Since the rest of the prophecy involves me, I'd say it's me."

"How do you figure?"

"The Physician is another name for Apollo."

"So?"

"So, who do you think taught me archery? Next to him, I'm the greatest archer among the Olympians."

"Or it could be Jason," Tim ponders.

Jason seems to go pale, almost panicked. "What?"

"I mean, assuming you're interpreting 'awaken' by activating the way you do with a sleeper agent. You infected him with your blood however accidentally and then pressed him into doing your dirty work."

"I resent your tone, boy," Eros grumbles, but Jason interjects, "And the other bit?"

"The other bit is just really literal," Barbara catches on. "Jason, you were trained by Batman. Who was the heir to an actual physician. The M.D. kind."

_Thomas Wayne._

Jason looks like he doesn't know what to do with that information. "Shit."

Eros watches Jason, inscrutable eyes considering; Jason glares back at him as if waiting for him to make a comment.

"But if it's Jason, the next bit wouldn't make sense," Barbara says after a moment. "'Magnificent Alexandros'. The only Alexandros I can think of off the top of my head if Alexander of Macedon. But that doesn't really track with the rest of the verse. He was a historical figure, not mythological."

"That's offensive, you know," Eros drawls. "All those stories you call mythology actually happened."

"Then why don't we have an archaeological record for them?"

"Because screw you, that's why."

"If it is talking about Alexander the Great, Robin will be happy," Tim says with a rueful smirk.

Jason is perplexed. "Why?"

"Apparently he was on the list of the kid's League-approved childhood heroes. Mother-son bonding time seems to have included traveling in his footsteps as preparation for world domination."

Jason looks surprised and amused. "Really?"

"Is it that surprising?"

"No, it's just…" Jason shakes his head. "Never mind." He clears his throat. "So, back to the prophecy. It talks about the Titans—are we talkin' the creatures the Olympian gods overthrew?"

"Well, whenever one of us mention the Titans, it is usually those bottom feeders rotting in Tartarus, yes," Eros says dryly, inscrutable focussed on Jason. "Them going free is never a good thing. Don't believe me, read the _Titanomachy_. Hesiod got it pretty close to right."

"Could be the goal, could be the result," Tim suggests.

"Which brings us back to possibly being on the lookout for more than one prisoner escaping Hades," Barbara says.

"And all of that leads us to the typical 'one shall live and one shall die' device," Eros concludes.

"Only we don't know who either of those is."

"I can tell you now if it's a prophecy involving me, I have no intention of dying."

"If it's even about you. It's not really an exact science, interpreting this sort of thing," Barbara warns. "Even an Olympian like you can misunderstand—there's evidence of that in the myths. In fact, I'm sure we're missing more than is good for us. It will take some time to decipher it and we need more information."

"At least we have something," Tim maintains. "The exact date when it's going to happen and where. We can begin preparing for that."

"It's a whole hell of a lot to think about," Jason agrees.

"Which you can do back at the Cave. We only came here to see if Eros could shed some light on the prophecy or see the arrows."

"What arrows?"

"Wonder Girl told us that to reverse what's been done to Nightwing is to remove the arrow that Carrie stabbed him with."

"Uh, there is no arrow," Jason says. "Cupid took it with her, remember?"

"I guess that answers that question," Barbara sighs. "You can't see them."

"Of course he can't," Eros says. "I'm the only one that can see the wounds caused by my arrows. Even this pseudo-Cupid wouldn't be able to see them."

"After she stabbed Jason she seemed to be looking for something, so I'm not sure about that," Tim argues.

"She can't see them. Though it _may_ be possible her divine passenger might. I don't know. Never had another god take my diviners before."

"Speaking of being stabbed," Tim goes on, nodding at the bruises coming out on his face. There are likely more hidden by the leather jacket and gear. "You should get those looked at."

"I didn't physically get stabbed, you know. Magic wounds don't need to be looked at."

"You went toe-to-toe with an enhanced fighter and Batman. You could have internal bleeding for all we know."

"If you think a little tussle with that _dick_ is going to do lastin' damage—"

Tim cuts off his indignation. "I don't, but you haven't been eating or sleeping properly, and your system is already compromised, so how do you know what damage was or wasn't done? You didn't stay to get treated at the Cave."

Their eyes meet, remembering exactly why that is, and Tim's cheeks darken. Jason is the first to look away, though.

"It's nothin'. I can patch myself up whenever."

"I can help—"

"I'm good."

"Jason—"

"I'm an adult and I've been treatin' myself without help for years now," Jason interrupts tensely. When Tim can't stop himself from flinching, Jason's eyes flash with dismay. "I mean…" He flounders like he's trying to take it back, and instead changes the subject. "Didn't you say somethin' about a list? Maybe get started on that and I'll do an injury check myself."

It's a clear cop-out, and if they were alone, Tim would be calling him on it.

"I'll ask for help if I need any," he adds, awkwardly, like it's been a long time since anyone actually cared about his injuries being treated.

Barbara glances between the two of them, obviously sensing the undertone, but not commenting on it. Instead, she says, "I don't mind helping Jason. Besides, Red Robin needs to contact the Family and let them know what we know."

"And I need food," Eros says. "I haven't eaten since before you went on your little reconnaissance mission. Can't you see? I'm _wasting away."_

"If only," Jason mutters.

Tim is torn, wanting to argue that he can help Jason, but at the same time trying to respect the other man's obvious need for distance.

At last, he nods.

"Okay," he says, feeling a little defeated. "Let's take a break. I'll make a food run…you get yourself fixed up."

"Whatever you say, babybird."

**⁂**

Once Tim vanishes, Barbie indicates with a jerk of her head that Jason should follow her upstairs to the Nest medbay. He knows better than to think it's just her wanting to take a look at his injuries—like him, she's probably looking for some privacy.

They take the elevator up in silence, and Jason wonders vaguely when the last time was, he was this close to Barbara Gordon.

_I don't think I have been, actually. We both avoid the manor unless there's no choice. And we both have good reasons for it. And when we are there together, there's usually about six to ten feet of distance between us._

They were never what he would call close before she was paralyzed and he died. Barbie was Dick's girl and Jason's occasional babysitter until the Joker ruined her life. And then she wasn't around at all. Jason wasn't alive to watch her painstakingly drag herself up and pull it together again, so he never got the chance to interact with the Barbara Gordon that became Oracle.

Since returning to Gotham he's kept her at a distance as much as he did the rest of the Family, so it's somewhat surprising to him that she's here now and working to help him.

_Probably it's on account of Tim. _

Still silent, they enter the surgically pristine room of the Nest's medical wing—and Jason is a little jealous of the supplies here. It makes the kits he has in his safehouses about as sophisticated as a needle and threat.

Barbie watches him, framed in the doorway.

"Well? Spit it out," he grunts, deciding to get whatever reprimands are forthcoming out of the way.

Her look turns sharp before she reaches into her jacket pocket for something; Jason can't help tensing up, even though she knows the likelihood of her pulling a weapon on him are slim to none.

That suspicion is confirmed when she instead draws out a device and turns it on; there's a high-pitched background whir that Jason recognizes as a listening device scrambler.

_Clearly we're both aware of what a paranoid freak Timbers can be._

"Okay, Jason, what's going on?" she asks without preamble. "You know Tim only wants to help you."

"Yeah, at his own expense," he retorts sourly.

Barbies raises an eyebrow as if waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn't, she presses, "You're being cagey. And it's more than just worrying about losing control around Tim, I can tell."

"Oh you can, can you?" he challenges.

"I've known you since you were still desperately trying to live up to Dick while pretending like you didn't care. I know when you're hiding something," she folds her arms. "Believe it or not, Jason, you're a terrible liar when it comes to things that matter."

It's reflex to want to say something caustic to that, but he stops himself in time. He needs Barbara's help and pissing her off isn't going to make his life any easier.

"I need a favor," he admits after a beat.

"Another one?" she repeats, sounding like she doesn't believe him. "You're going to owe me a lot."

"Yeah, well, now would be the time to collect on those debts while I still can."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means everyone else is tiptoein' around the subject, but at some point, I'm gonna need to be put under," he says, erring on the side of just enough truth to keep her from questioning him further. "We both know what I'm talkin' about here."

As expected, Barbara only just keeps herself from visibly recoiling; she's already ready with an argument. "You don't know we won't find something before that happens."

"I'm already feelin' like I'm livin' in someone else's skin—" _Literally, in a way. "_—I'm not gonna get any better than I am right now. We've already seen what it looks like when I dip toward worse. So while I'm still lucid, let me make my decisions. And my decision is, I'd rather go under while I'm still me instead of violent, mindless…reaver."

Barbara does a minor double-take. "Did you just make a _Firefly_ reference?"

"It's the last series I was watching before I died," Jason says, a little defensive.

"I'm not judging, just surprised. Dick and Tim are usually the ones making pop-culture references to deflect. I'm not used to it from you."

"And I'm not used to you stallin'," he counters. "You're different from the other Bats, O. You know how to cut your losses, and you know how to make decisions when no one else wants to think about it. You _get_ makin' the hard calls. So, I'm gonna ask you: when it comes down to a choice between me and Tim—and I mean _when_, not _if_—who do you save?"

Something like pain passes over her face, and then resolve hardens her face. "Tim."

"Exactly," he approves. "Because unlike me, he's good. And smart."

"You're both of those things, even if you pretend like you're not," she protests.

"And he hasn't committed multiple murders," Jason continues, acting like he didn't hear her. "Not that what I've done wasn't justified. It wasn't good, but I don't regret it because I will go to my grave believin' sometimes that line needs to be crossed. Again. But it's still a line Tim's been lucky enough not to _have_ to cross."

She doesn't argue with him, instead inclines her head.

"More people will miss him if he were gone then they would me," Jason concludes. "I'm not supposed to be here anyway."

There's a long beat of measuring silence. Then, Barbara sighs. "What is it you need, Jason?"

He tilts his chin in gratitude.

"I didn't just come here to yell at Eros," he admits. "If Wonder Woman doesn't show up, he's the only one I know who has access to the stuff I need."

"The Stygian Sleep."

"Yeah. But it's probably in GCPD lock-up." He gives her a quick run-down of events, minus anything about Eros' intentional plan to infect him. Babs listens, jaw set and eyes narrowed; given what she just said about him, she likely knows he's not being completely truthful, but his explanation clearly holds enough water that she doesn't call him on it.

"I'll get someone to look into it," she decides at last.

Which, even though he's relieved about, he's also suspicious.

"And by 'look into' you mean grab hold of and perform a million tests on it before handin' it over," he posits.

"Just because you're hellbent on using something that's effectively going to kill you doesn't mean I don't want to know everything about it first," she says, unapologetic. "Like the prophecy, it might have clues about how to circumvent it."

"Yeah, because we're having _so much_ luck with that."

"Also, when Bruce comes to me later in a righteous fury for letting his son die a second time, I'll be able to assure him we knew everything we did about it before making an informed decision."

Jason doesn't pretend to believe that's the end of it. Barbara might be willing to humor Jason a little more than Bruce, or even Dick when he's not compromised—she might even be a little more objective in considering things, but she's not going to trust Jason's plan to be the only plan. She'll have her own contingencies, the same as any Bat.

The only difference with Babs is that once it's over and done with, and it becomes clear there's no saving him, she'll have an easier time getting over it than Bruce will. And she won't let it compromise her work.

Tim's told Jason what Bruce and Dick were like after he died the first time, and if it happens again, Gotham needs someone competent in keeping things in check.

And Tim…

Jason's heart thuds with guilt.

This time, Tim won't just be sweeping in to pick up the broken pieces of Batman and Nightwing as he did as a kid. He won't be watching it from the sidelines.

The memory hits him then. To his surprise, it's not from Achilleus or Alexandros.

_Jason hates Wayne Charity galas._

_People are always staring at him, murmuring through pasted-on smiles that even if he couldn't read lips, he would be able to hear the judgment dripping from their words. These people are so achingly dry and genteel, their teeth don't even unclench around their vowels. _

_Bruce doesn't make him come to all that many of these shindigs, thankfully; only the ones involving children's advocacy and the like. Jason doesn't mind those too much, considering their purpose. He just hates that even at those—like the one tonight—he's the only kid that has to parade around in the straitjacket Alfred calls a tux. _

_He gets it, of course; he's the poster-boy, the success story, a means of showing the rich snobs how well a dirty Crime Alley orphan can clean up so that they'll open their checkbooks. _

_It doesn't mean he has to like it. _

_Except for tonight, for the first time, he noticed another kid that's been dragged along. A tiny boy whose meticulously fitted tux still manages to look too big for him. _

_A man and woman who must be his parents are chatting with another couple, seemingly oblivious to the way their son is staring into the distance, a neutrally polite expression fixed on his face. He might as well be sleeping standing up, and Jason has the odd suspicion that's by design. _

_That makes his mouth twitch; maybe rich kids get bored with this kind of thing too. _

_Jason keeps staring across the manor ballroom until the strange kid senses his gaze and looks up. He grins when the boy's eyes widen—their color is startling, even from across the room, and they take up practically his whole face—and wonders at the sudden flood of color in his cheeks. _

_He's about to motion the boy over to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, will definitely break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce's hand falls hard on his shoulder._

_"Time to make an exit, son," he says, voice quiet and intense and incongruent with the false smile he's still beaming at everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the distracted note in his words, Jason doesn't even need to look out the window to see the signal lighting up the sky. _

_They meet Felipe Garzonas that night, and he doesn't think of the boy again._

Jason shudders as the technicolor recollection fades out, his stomach twisting angrily.

He's never made the connection between Tim and the boy at the fundraiser before. It occurs to him how stupid that was—at the same time it occurs to him that if not for that case that night, he might not have been on the outs with Bruce. He might have endured more Wayne event galas instead of limiting whatever time he was with Bruce to being Robin by night. He might have gotten to _know_ Tim in this life, instead of dying.

He might not be in this damned predicament right now.

"Jason?"

He looks up, realizes that Barbie is watching him with concern. He is quick to revisit their conversation and mutters, "Yeah, fine. Just make sure the stuff actually makes it to me before my brain dribbles out of my head, okay?"

"Stop being so dramatic," she replies, reaching out to turn off the scrambler device, though she continues to exude suspicion.

"All Bats are dramatic, or have you forgotten?" he quips back, offering an irreverent smirk to cover up.

"Hard to forget something you live with every day," she returns dryly. "Now get over here and let me check you over."

"You don't need to," he points out. "I've had worse than this, you know."

"Yes, yes, we're all aware you've died and come back, who hasn't these days?" she returns. "Now, shirt off, or I'm telling Tim you didn't do what you said you would."

Jason glares. "This is going to become a thing, isn't it? You people using Tim to make me do things."

"Things that are for your own good, yes. Now strip, Todd."

"Yes, _mother_…"

"You wish your mother was as cool as me."

Which Jason can't argue with, because she's right; he's had a total of three mother figures in his life (two of which he's not sure even qualify because of how messed up they were), and none of them have been as capable or decent as Barbara Gordon.

Once he's shrugged his top half out of the body armor and leather, she reaches for him.

Jason experiences a nauseous swoop in his stomach at the idea of anyone but Tim putting hands on him. Instantly, his hand snaps up and knocks hers back.

"Don't touch me!" he snarls.

Barbara pulls away, watching him with a raised eyebrow and instantly Jason is overwhelmed with shame.

"Sorry," he bites out. "I didn't mean…"

"We can wait for Tim to get back," she suggests, instantly understanding.

Alarms blare in his head at the thought; he shakes his head. "No. No, I'm…I'm good. Now that I'm expectin' it."

She considers him several beats longer and then makes the next attempt to check his injuries. This time he concentrates on forcing the sick feeling away and tries to ignore how it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper across his skin.

_That's a new symptom. Great. Because it wasn't enough that I've been trying to claw my skin of myself, now other people get to do it too…_

Barbara checks him over with quiet efficiency, evaluating the shallow slash between his arm and shoulder which his armor didn't cover, as well the bruising along his hips, elbows and lower back.

"It could be worse," she decides eventually, considering the mottled purpling across his chest. "Ribs are bruised, not broken."

"I could've told you that…"

"And were you going to tell me about that?" she points at his shoulder and the spiderweb of gold leeching out around the long-healed-over bullet wound. From the way he's been itching at it this past day, he doesn't need a mirror to know it's beginning to creep up his neck as well. "How long has it been growing like that?"

"Pretty much since I got it," he replies.

She reaches up, brow furrowed and reaches toward one of the raised lines winding toward his chest. Again, he braces himself for the pain of the touch his body doesn't want.

Thankfully, she barely grazes that. "You haven't been keeping better track, have you? It might give us a more specific idea of how much time you have."

"How so?"

"The same as any poison, I would guess. The closer it gets to your heart, the less time you have."

He frowns. "At this point, I don't think it even matters."

Movement outside of the med bay window draws his attention, and he across the floor to see Tim climbing the stairs from the ground floor.

Jason is quick to grab his shirt and tug it on; it's not something he wants to discuss with Tim just yet.

Barbara watches him, lips pursed in worry and disapproval, but he could care less about the latter. She knows his thoughts on this, and she'll respect them.

Tim strides in and then slows like he's wondering if he's supposed to knock or not.

"How are you doing?" he asks, hesitant like he's afraid expressing concern will set Jason off like a bomb.

Guilt hits him at that, but he forces himself to remain calm and blank-faced. "Fine."

"I have to go," Barbie announces, maneuvering her chair toward the door. "I need to go back to the Cave and check on Dick's condition. I don't know how long it will be before he tries to escape or pull something to keep from going nuts."

"Also, it'd be nice if this month was one of the ones where Alfred _doesn't_ get knocked out," Tim suggests with false levity.

"Or lose a hand," Jason mutters darkly.

"Exactly. And whether he knows it or not, Feathers downstairs gave me some ideas about how to remove the arrow," Barbie says as they leave the med bay.

"I should come with you."

"No." Both Barbara and Tim speak at the same time, but she's the one that keeps talking. "You should stay here."

"Not sure that's the best idea."

"I think it is," Tim counters. "It will keep us out of everyone's hair and they'll know where we are." His tone is reasonable—too reasonable; clearly Timmy has some ulterior motives.

Whether those motives are to circumvent Bruce or Jason's plans, he doesn't care. But one thing _is_ for sure. "They can know where we are if we're at the manor."

And isn't that a reversal—_Jason_ being the one to insist on that?

_I need to have people around because I don't trust myself right now._

The mutinous expression is back on Tim's face, before he visibly switches tactics.

"Okay, how about this," he suggests, tone only a shade off exasperated. "Why don't you go lie down somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep? If you're sleeping, you're not doing anything else, right? And then we'll either go back to the Cave or see if anyone can be spared to chaperone here."

"There's no need for that," a voice says, and they all look up to see Damian stride in still in full Robin-gear.

Tim scowls. "How did you get in here?"

"It was fairly simple," the kid snorts. "A fish tank, Drake? Really?"

Tim looks like he wants to protest, but Jason chuckles. "It was kind of obvious, babybird."

"You can barely take care of yourself, and you expect someone with a brain to believe you have the patience to care for fish?" the boy continues. "Exactly who do you think has been feeding them when you forget?"

Tim gapes. "You…break into my apartment…to feed my fish?"

Jason can't help the loud guffaw that escapes at that, earning two equally unimpressed glares in return. He doesn't care—that might be the funniest thing he's heard in days.

"I'll leave you to it then," Barbara says and wheels out of the room. "Try not to kill each other, boys. Alfred would be unhappy about it."

"Luckily, we are standing in a well-stocked room with several methods for resuscitating a dead body," Damian replies easily.

"Don't you have school?" Tim grumbles.

"It's Sunday, Drake."

"Still doesn't explain why you're here."

"I have been sent to babysit you two and put Todd down with extreme prejudice should he try anything.

Which Tim gapes and, while Jason is…kind of relieved about.

"Aw, Dami, I knew you cared," he teases.

"Don't address me with that infantile drivel!"

Tim sighs.

"Just don't set anything on fire while you're here…"

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!_

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	14. XIV

What follows is a silent feud about where Jason will sleep. He tries to insist that the cot in the medbay will be sufficient, but Tim is unmoved by the argument.

"You need to be comfortable," he maintains crossly. "The only time anyone gets any sleep in here is if they're doped up on the good drugs, none of which will help you right now."

"Sleep won't help me either, you know. There hasn't really been a difference between being awake or not for a while now."

Tim tries not to betray his dismay at that. "It might not do anything for your mind, but it might for the rest of you. You need to keep what strength you can."

"Then I'll sleep on your couch."

"That thing was brought for decoration only," Tim counters. "I can tell you from experience that falling asleep on it causes as many bruises as a night of patrol." He pauses to consider, and then says, "Besides, that's where the brat's sleeping if he stays over."

Damian rolls his eyes. "Hilarious. I expect someone else will be here to relieve me before I ever have to endure what passes as your version of hospitality."

"There are two bedrooms in the apartment," Tim goes on, ignoring the boy, "Alfred was by before all this happened to change the linens, so it's all clean. You can take my bed—"

"No. _No. _I can't. If you're going to be stubborn about this, I'll go with the guestroom."

"Really? You're going to pick a fight over this too?" Tim groans. "My room is the only one with blackout blinds, which are statistically proven to improve sleep quality."

Jason shifts from side to side, like he's wavering, and then throws Damian an almost pleading look.

The boy huffs in irritation and snaps at Tim, "Surely even you can't be ignorant to the implications of letting a man, who's aroused by your very presence, sleep in your bed?"

Stunned silence meets that comment, before the horror sets in.

"Damian!"

"What the hell, kid?!"

"You just…I can't believe you…That's not…!" Tim may be too upset for words at this moment, not least of all because _the little monster has a point._

"If this is what having a normal younger brother feels like, I'm amazed any of you make it to adulthood," Jason growls, cheeks bright red.

The boy remains unrepentant. "I'm sure Richard has said the same thing about both of you on occasion. Now, if you're both finished with the Victorian theatrics, I haven't eaten yet and assuming the likely event that Drake has nothing palatable in his fridge, I intend to order something. If you don't want to starve, you may come along. And bring your credit card."

He swans out of the medbay, leaving the older vigilantes staring after him.

"How?" Tim mutters. "How is it the little jerk always manages to walk around my property like he owns it?"

"Because you're a pushover," Jason answers immediately.

Tim makes a face. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me that when you're not holding my hand like it's a lifeline."

Jason's eyes snap downward in surprise like he didn't notice he was doing it. If they were red before, the color of his cheeks appears to darken further now.

"Shut up," he snaps.

Which makes Tim feel bad about teasing him.

_It's not like he has control over it._

Or the way he's been looking at him since Tim showed up with Barbara.

It's total disbelief, like he can't understand how Tim was physically in front of him, and then something like shame or guilt.

The knot in Tim's stomach tightens at that.

_Is kissing me really something that bothers him that much?_

"You, uh, you don't have to take my bed," Tim murmurs, avoiding the other man's gaze. "It's like you said. Not like you're going to sleep anyway, so…the guestroom should be good enough."

He leaves the medbay, Jason in tow.

"Why do you even have a guestroom?" the latter wants to know. "You don't strike me as the type to want people staying over here."

"Kon and Bart sometimes crash here."

Jason scowls. "Aren't they fast enough to just zoom back home in a blink? Why do they have to stay here?"

"Uh, because they're my friends? And sometimes friends get together and do things like play video games, go see movies or just sit and commiserate about how irritating our parent-slash-mentors can be. They don't _have_ to stay, but sometimes it's just fun to hang out."

"Yeah, well, wouldn't know anything about that," Jason mutters.

Some of Tim's attitude fades away. "Really? Bruce didn't let you hang out with your friends?"

"To do that you need to have friends to hang out with."

"But I thought—there was that girl, wasn't there?" he asks as he opens the door to the apartment, and they head in.

_I'm sure I saw_ _pictures of her and Jason up in his bedroom_.

Jason looks confused for a moment, like he's trying to remember something long-buried, but eventually the recollection takes hold.

"Rena? Yeah, we hung out, but there weren't sleepovers involved, and I couldn't exactly complain to her about when Batman was being a douche," he reminds him. "And I _guarantee_ when we went to see movies, we weren't _actually_ watching the movie. If you know what I mean."

He ends the last bit with a leer and now it's Tim who's embarrassed. "What about the Titans? You never stayed over at the Tower?"

"Daytrips only," Jason replies. "B wasn't keen on me hanging out with them. I think he still blamed them for Dick leaving and thought they'd corrupt me or something. I was rarely there long enough to bond with anyone like that."

"Sounds kind of like Damian's situation," Tim says, glancing over to where the younger boy is sitting at his kitchen island with his cellphone in hand, lecturing someone across the line in rapid Chinese.

"I think in his case, it isn't so much the lack of opportunity to make friends as the lack of interest."

"You're not wrong." Tim shakes his head. "I mean, he did grow up in the League. And you…" He trails off, suddenly reminded. "You were there too, right? When you came back?"

"Sort of," Jason allows, shifting with discomfort. "Friends weren't high on the list of priorities then."

"I guess not."

Tim purses his lips as he leads Jason up the stairs toward the bedroom, wondering not for the first time what kind of hell the other man had to endure upon his resurrection. That part of his life is a mystery to them all.

_And I have a feeling some of it _shouldn't _be. _

He recalls the blades that appeared in Jason's hand out of nowhere, and strains his memory through the disorganization of the fight to remember what Carrie Cutter said when she saw them.

"What about the All-Caste," he recalls out loud as he leads for Jason to enter the guestroom at the end of the hall. "Was that the same thing?"

He doesn't have to look at the other man to notice he's tensed up. "Sort of, yeah."

"So, it's another secret organization? They're the ones who gave you those swords, right?"

"Nobody gave me anything," Jason grunts, and skirts past Tim and through the door into the room. He pauses a moment, assessing the space as if expecting something to jump out at him—_there's the Bat-paranoia—_before turning back to face Tim. "I trained for that shit, and it takes a special kind of rage to be able access the All-Blades."

Tim leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "_All-Blades_. Really. They're seriously called that?"

Jason shoots him a look. "Problem?"

"No. I just…it's kind of a lame name. Magic blades are usually called…Excalibur or Sword of Omens or Dagger of Time." That earns him a disbelieving look, and Tim throws his hands up in defense. "I'm just _saying_."

"You're a goddamn nerd is what you're saying," Jason informs him. "And it doesn't matter what they're called, it's what they do."

"' Only show up in the presence of pure evil'. I remember. As far as powers go, at least they're useful."

"Not if Cupid decides to keep switching back and forth with whoever's helping her," Jason says. "They work against whoever that is but are useless against her when she's human and just crazy." Weariness radiates off him, and to Tim's surprise, he throws himself back onto the bed seemingly without any of his prior unease, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What I wouldn't give right now for a superpower that was a bit less finicky."

"The fact that we have a power on our side at all is still an advantage."

"Not as much as if I had the ability to blow shit up with my mind. Which would be kind of poetic."

His mouth twists into a self-deprecating grin that makes Tim scowl. "Of course."

_Always with the death jokes. _

Jason appears to notice his tone because when he lowers his hands from his eyes there's a glimmer of apology there. It vanishes almost immediately, hidden beneath the veneer of humor.

"What about you?" he asks.

"What about me what?"

"If you could have a superpower, what would it be?"

And isn't this surreal?

First, that Jason is _here_ in his apartment, second that this isn't some kind of Red Hood plan where he shows up to mess with Tim. And now they're talking about _superpowers_? In the hypothetical sense, instead of their usual 'someone-with-a-power-is-trying-to-kill-us' sense.

Jason is still waiting for him to answer, so Tim thinks for a moment. "I don't know. Something easy to hide, I guess."

"Hide? Like from B?"

"No—well, yeah, that too. You know how he is. But I wouldn't want something that would call attention to myself, or anyone else in the masked community. Especially not the Bats," he says.

"Huh. Guess you got a point. If suddenly getting powers meant you develop lizard skin or wings or gills, it'd be kinda hard to hide even with all the fun Wayne Enterprises toys you've got."

"And if someone like Vicki Vale could finally make the connection between me and everyone else? I think I'll pass."

Jason shakes his head. "There you go again, putting everyone's needs and comfort above yourself. It's a real issue with you, isn't it?"

"It's a hypothetical situation, you don't need to read too much into it."

"Okay, well _hypothetically_, if you weren't a self-sacrificing moron, what power would you want?"

Tim ponders for a moment, and then says, "Being able to fly, maybe. Or super strength."

"Wanna be able to keep up with Super Clone, huh?" Jason asks, voice a little tight.

Tim frowns because that sounds like a dig; not at him, he realizes a beat later, but Connor.

_Why would that…? Oh. He's _jealous_._

Still unsure how to deal with Jason's newfound possessiveness, he gauges the other man's body language, and then slowly enters the room proper to perch on the edge of the bed. Knowing how uneasy Jason is about physical proximity, he keeps a respectable distance between them for now.

Out loud, and in a would-be casual voice, he replies, "No, nothing like that. It'd just be nice to be able to go up against Bane or Killer Croc without having to worry too much about the day I'm too slow to dodge."

Wrong thing to say, apparently.

Jason's instantly sitting up and reaching for Tim—almost snatching at him. "You go one-on-one with _Killer Croc_? Are you _nuts_?"

"It's an example," Tim is quick to assure him even as he lets him grasp his hand. "I've never been that reckless. I'm not _Damian_."

_Although there was that one time, I tricked Killer Croc and Bane into going after each other instead of me, but I'm not telling Jason that _now_. Save that for when he's cured and will find it funny instead of upsetting._

He tries to ignore the nagging doubt at the back of his mind that they're even going to be able to cure Jason.

Or that if they do, Jason will even stick around.

"Thank the gods for small miracles," Jason exhales; he doesn't remove his hand, though.

"Also, aside from being useful the next time someone decides to drop a baby over a bridge, flying's awesome," Tim says lightly. "You can't tell me your favorite thing about being Robin wasn't jumping off tall buildings."

"Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. There's something to be said for busting collarbones."

"You forget that I was there," Tim points out. "I saw you taking the long way back to your rendezvous points just so you could be in the air a little longer."

"Pics or it didn't happen."

"I _have_ pictures."

"Which you don't show anyone."

"Yeah, because I love reminding people of how I stalked them when I was a stupid kid," Tim deadpans.

"Hey, you did it, own it. But I'd still like to see those pictures. I…uh…don't exactly have a lot of me from before…from when I was a kid."

Tim purses his lips, holding back on his first instinct to babble out an agreement. This new honesty and vulnerability Jason is showing him—the increased tactility and need for proximity—it's only Eros' blood influencing him. Who's to say once things are back to normal—_and they will be!—_Jason won't go back to mocking and deriding Tim?

_Assuming he wants to be within ten feet of me. _

"Tell you what," he says at last. "When this is over, if you still want to see them, I'll hunt them out of storage."

Jason beams at him in genuine excitement. "Awesome."

They gaze at each other for several seconds, before Jason seems to remember himself. His eyes dart to their hands, and he pulls back again. "Sorry."

"You know what I'm going to say."

"Yeah. But it's not just about you. I'm not…I don't do _this."_ He gestures. "Even when I'm not under the influence of mind-altering drugs, not a fan of handsy guys. Especially if the handsy guy is me."

"You know, I had noticed that pattern since you got back to Gotham," Tim says dryly. "All that busting of collarbones you were talking about."

Jason's cheeks go pink for some reason at that. "Uh. Yeah. Exactly."

Before Tim can think it over, Jason shifts until he's lying down, and then turns his back on Tim. "Think I'm gonna try that whole sleeping thing. Just for shits and giggles."

"Okay," Tim replies slowly, feeling as if he's missing something. "You want me to go?"

"No!" Jason practically whirls around, winces when he realizes how fervent that was. "I mean…you can stay. If you want." He swallows, looking anywhere but Tim. "Might help. A bit. You don't have to."

_I hope the King of Mixed Signals thing you've got going on is just the infection…_

"How about this," Tim begins, bringing out his phone. "I'll sit over here—" A respectable six inches away from Jason, "—and get to work on that list. You try to get some sleep. When you wake up, you can look it over and tell me what you think."

He can see how Jason's working out if that's alright, trying to find any way that could backfire, and then he slowly nods.

"Okay. Yeah. Let's do that."

"And at the top of the list," Tim says, shooting him a meaningful glare, "'Jason Todd is allowed to hold Tim Drake's hand'. Should I put it in bold?"

"Don't be such a smug shit, Replacement."

The other man still settles back on his side of the bed. It's completely stiff at first, and his eyes remain trained on Tim like he's afraid he'll either vanish or wrap himself around him.

Tim pretends not to notice the scrutiny, instead sits cross-legged in his designated spot, and makes it seem like he's wholly engrossed in figuring out a list of behaviors that they can both consider allowable. Which is a new one for him, because he's never really considered doing this before in a regular relationship, let alone one as situational as this.

Eventually the exhaustion of the past days catches up with Jason, and the Bat conditioning of grabbing sleep wherever and whenever one can wins out. His breath evens out and when Tim does look up, his eyelids have drifted shut.

For several minutes, he simply watches, before catching himself.

_Don't be a creeper. _

He turns back to his phone.

Unsure what else to add to the list (and there's kind of no point doing this while Jason's asleep, Tim only said he'd work on it to keep the other man calm), Tim decides to use the time to read up a little more on Greek mythology. Jason is so well-read on this subject and Tim has only a passing knowledge, if there's any chance of thinking up new solutions for this case, it will help if he doesn't need Jason or Eros to take the time to explain things to him.

_Especially not Eros. I trust him about as far as Kon could throw him…_

He never thought this sort of thing was important to know, mostly because if there was ever case involving mythology or ancient evil, Cassie generally had that covered.

_Apparently, a refresher course is in order. _

Speaking of Cassie, he sends her a quick text—and then one to Bart and Kon just to cover all his bases—before diving into his research.

He doesn't have the time or the patience to read the original works of Hesiod or Homer, although he amuses himself thinking Jason probably has.

_Maybe even in the original Greek._

He spares a fond look for the sleeping man beside him.

Somehow, he never expected he could look so vulnerable. And not only because that word seems incompatible for describing Jason.

After years of training, the mantra of 'constant vigilance' gets so ingrained in a body that it can never really relax into slumber. Tim doesn't think any of the Robins are able to just check-out when they go to sleep.

_Not without heavy sedation, or under the care of a qualified English butler. _

And unlike Dick and Tim, the other Robins all led lives that were anything but safe. Being a heavy sleeper could lead to more than just bruises.

His fingers want to drift toward Jason again, want to comb through his hair but Tim is loath to disturb his fragile slumber.

He becomes aware then, of eyes on him and Jason; looking up, he catches Damian watching from the doorway, a frown on his face.

Tim tenses up defensively then, expecting a snide comment and already planning on how he'll fight the kid if he makes a big deal about this.

_Jason already feels bad enough about the whole thing, we don't need any more comments from the peanut gallery. _

"Did you need something?" he asks coolly, voice soft so as not to disturb Jason.

"I simply came to inform you that Brown has arrived for her babysitting shift," the boy tells him, but the usual sneer that would accompany his words is absent. He lingers a further moment in the doorway, shakes his head and then walks away.

Tim frowns, not sure he wants to ask, but also knowing that leaving Damian to his own devices rarely turns out well.

Carefully, he shifts away from Jason, moving with gentleness so as not to wake him. Once he's satisfied that he hasn't disturbed him, he leaves the room and gently closes the door behind him.

Damian is already across the hallway, leaning against the door of Tim's study with his arms crossed and mouth pulled downward. It's the same look Bruce gets when he's puzzling out a clue that doesn't fit.

"You care for Todd."

"Of course I do," Tim agrees automatically. "He's one of us."

"No. Not like that." Damian pauses, like he's trying to choose his words with care, which is…rare for him. "You care about him in a romantic way. I had assumed it was one-sided due to the circumstances, but it's not. You return his feelings."

Tim's stomach swoops, a lump in his throat.

_First Steph, now Damian. I've managed to keep this to myself for almost ten years, and in the span of two weeks two of the people I'd _least_ like to know figure it out. _

Damian continues to watch him, waiting for a confirmation or a denial.

Tim chooses to side-step. "He doesn't have feelings for me. You know that's Eros' blood making him act this way."

"Perhaps. It doesn't change the fact that at this moment, he cares for you and you care for him."

"The key words being 'at this moment'," Tim says with a scowl. "Which means it doesn't matter. It's not real."

"I don't understand. This is clearly a good thing, and yet you both persist in being miserable," Damian says, crossing his arms. "If you act on your feelings, it could allay his distress much better than your current half-measures. And in the meantime, the rest of us can work on a long-term solution."

Tim clenches his jaw, a myriad of responses on his tongue, some more defensive and angry than others.

He's saved from saying anything when another voice says, "It doesn't work like that, Dami."

Steph has made her way up the stairs; she's dressed in comfortable clothes and the cast on her arm has been wrapped with purple tape.

"There's no Band-Aid solution for this," she goes on. "When this is all over and Jason goes back to wanting nothing to do with the Family—with Tim—it's going to be heartbreaking."

"It will be heartbreaking anyhow," Damian points out. "You may as well enjoy it while you can. At least then, you'll have the memories. Especially if our efforts to save him are unsuccessful."

Which is oddly deep, for Damian.

"Memories aren't always a good substitute for giving up that last bit of yourself," Steph says quietly. "Take it from someone who knows from experience."

Her expression wavers, and Tim wonders which heartbreak she's thinking of just then. Her father constantly letting her down, having to give up her daughter, the events that lead to her breakup with Tim—

It could be anything.

"And you don't want another schism with Jason to affect the team dynamics," Steph concludes.

Damian is not convinced. "_Please_. If that were the case, we would already have seen worse consequences from you and Drake working together."

Steph tilts her head to one side. "Okay, you have a point there. Kinda surprised you're the one making it, though."

"Why?"

"I always figured romantic relationships didn't merit your attention."

"Not unless they affect our work. Which is what Drake and Todd's is doing now."

"Should have known…" Steph rolls her eyes. "Still surprising, though. Especially considering your background."

"Meaning?"

"The, uh, culture you come from. With the League and how strict they are about everything. I figured you'd have a bigger problem with two guys, you know, having feelings for each other."

"_Alleged_ feelings," Tim reminds. "Alleged feelings induced by supernatural roofie. I don't think it counts."

"Technicalities," Steph dismisses with a wave of her hand. "There's still major dude-on-dude sexual tension happening here."

Tim chokes, and Damian looks like he stepped in something gross. "Thank you for that horrifying assessment, Brown."

"I do what I can."

"But for your information, League law is based on skills, not who warms one's bed," Damian says. "Proscriptions against homosexuality were created by populations with such a low survival rate following birth that every available person had to be governed by the need to procreate. That's no longer an issue today."

"Really."

"In fact, should anyone in the League develop an attachment to one of their comrades—which isn't forbidden, by the way, it's just looked down on—it's considered less of a problem among same-sex relationships because it means fewer children adding to the surplus population of the world. If no one elevates their paramour above the League's law and purpose, it is not a problem."

"Huh. That actually makes sense. I mean, with Ra's' whole 'destroy humanity to save the world' spiel."

"Only certain bloodlines are continued to ensure stewardship of the world," Damian agrees. "My aunt, once she fulfilled her duties to give birth to an heir, has taken only female lovers."

"Wait…you have an aunt?"

Damian ignores her and turns to Tim. "Were your feelings for Todd entirely mutual, it would be a smart match for the both of you. Your bloodlines would cease, ridding us of your less desirable evolutionary qualities."

"Gee, thanks," Tim deadpans. "I think that was _almost_ a compliment."

"With you and Todd unable to provide a legacy, I would be the only one to carry on Father's bloodline," the boy concludes.

"You _do_ realize that adoption and surrogacy are a thing, right?" Steph asks, bemused. "I mean, weren't you technically a test-tube baby?"

"Blood is blood," Damian says with a shrug.

"And how do Cass and Duke and Dick fit into your little scenario here?" Tim grumbles.

"Cain has never indicated an interest in any children and given the conditioning her biological parents subjected her to, I image they ensured it would never become an issue for her," the boy muses. "Thomas is not part of the family—"

"Yet," Steph pipes up.

Damian makes a dismissive gesture, as if he agrees but doesn't consider it an issue. "And Richard is not blood."

"He's still Bruce's son."

"We're _all_ Bruce's sons," Tim growls, once again growing irritated with Damian's black-and-white view of the world.

"You retained your father's name, as does Thomas. Todd is legally deceased. And Richard never took Father's name, to begin with. He will have his own children—if by some miracle he doesn't have them already—and they will likely marry into the family since he is _ghayr_ _mahram_. Thus, we'll maintain a strong Wayne bloodline."

He nods to himself as if pleased with the assessment.

Tim stares. "Your brain is a messed-up place. You know this, right?"

"You seriously have all of this planned out?" Steph wonders, expression caught between disturbed and impressed. She looks like she might want to hear more, and so Tim interrupts.

"In any case, you guys are _way_ off-topic—like, parallel-universe-levels of off-topic. And if you don't stop, I'm going to start speculating about hypothetical future relationships between the two of you."

"Oh, ew. Why, Tim? _Why_?"

"As if I would ever…of all the preposterous…does your mind know no bounds of depravity?" Damian sputters.

"Consider it revenge for that comment you made about Jason in the medbay."

Damian shudders. "Point made.

"What comment?"

"Not now, Steph."

She sighs. "Fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I'm going to finish steal some Chinese food if you don't mind."

She heads downstairs, and Tim shoots a glare at Damian. "You didn't come to get us when the food got here?"

"Do I look like Pennyworth to you? It's not enough I had to order it for you—"

"With _my_ money, I'm guessing."

"—did you want me to eat it for you too?"

"Like you didn't already."

"Semantics." The boy turns toward the stairs as well.

"Damian."

"What?"

"Don't…don't tell Bruce," Tim says after a beat of hesitation. He doesn't like confirming any kind of perceived weakness to the younger boy, but this one has ruinous potential if not kept secret. "Please."

Damian doesn't immediately take his meaning, but when he does, he gives a sharp, barely noticeably nod.

"Tch—as if Father would be bothered by such trivium. But if you insist." Tim exhales in surprised relief. "Although…"

He tenses. _Should have known it wouldn't be that easy._

"I would caution you against making your feelings about Todd very obvious around Richard," Damian suggests. "Considering the way he has been compromised, should he discover the truth it won't remain a secret for you to tell."

He departs then, leaving Tim standing in the hallway, feeling bizarrely wrong-footed.

⁂

_The horizon over Susa is dark but for a thin strip of pink, the last lingering trail of Apollo's chariot. As he heads out of the feast chamber and onto the balcony, Jason—no, not Jason. He is Alexandros, scion of gods and heir to kings—breathes deep the spicy sweet-smelling air and tries to dispel his melancholy. _

_His mind is a million miles away from the festivities within. He can hear the raucous shouts of his men and their new wives, the music and the dance and the drink. He should be in there with them, but his mood for celebrating feels false—false like the entire charade he's just engaged in for the sake of peace and politics. _

_His feet are itching to take off at a run for who knows where, and yet he remains stubbornly and painfully grounded. _

_There is a hand suddenly upon his—brown, callused and familiar. He looks down into dark, burning eyes and sees concern there, and so forces a smile._

_"This is your wedding night, you know," he reminds. "You should be spending it with your brides." _

_"And you with yours," Tim—no, _Hephaestion—_replies, trying for teasing but it sounds more brittle than anything else. _

_"The duty will keep. There is only one I would spend this night with."_

_Alexandros leans into the other man, presses his forehead head against the smaller man's hair. _

_"I'll be sure to notify Roxana to expect you," Hephaestion murmurs. _

_Alexandros reels back with a scowl. "Very funny." _

_"I thought it was." _

_But there's a lack of his usual wry humor in the words. _

_Alexandros sighs, knowing the reason for it. "Are you still angry I insisted you wed Drypteis?"_

_"How can I be? The weddings were my idea." And they were—a brilliant and necessary political maneuver meant to forge ties between the ruling houses of Perses and Makedonia._

_"One you suggested without expecting you would have to endure yourself," he points out. "Policy works better when those in power lead by example." _

_"Is that what it was? Here I thought you were simply tiring of the rumormongering of your other vassals," Hephaestion says darkly. "It's no secret they would have me banished or dead to take my place."_

_"There is no one who ever could," Alexandros assures him, worried about the sudden insecurity. "And my wish that you wed had nothing to do with what anyone else thinks. There is a grander hope in my heart than that." _

_Hephaestion raises an eyebrow; it's the first he's heard of this._

_"Do you not see? In having you marry the sister of my own wife, you and I are now bound even more closely together than before. We are family in _more_ than just bond now—as closely as nature will allow—and no one can argue it," Alexandros explains fervently. "And one day when I have a son, and you a daughter, they can wed. We will share descendants, and they will cement the dynasty and _our_ bloodline in perpetuity." He crosses his arms. "So my other vassals can bay at the moon as much as they want, there will never be another who replaces you in my esteem."_

_Hephaestion's expression is surprised at first, then pleased. A small smile curls at the edge of his lips, cheeks darkening. But a moment later, something troubling and uncertain enters his eyes. _

_"What is it, _philtatos? _Does that future displease you?"_

_"It's a pretty dream your words weave, but if someone sticks a knife in your back or poisons you before you father an heir, it's nothing but a dream."_

_"There is time enough for that yet. And in that task, I am not alone," he teases. "Your line also has yet to be so blessed." _

_But Hephaestion does not rise to the bait. "You have already achieved so much. As great as—greater still—than your father before you." Alexandros clenches his fist at the mention of his father; the man is dead twelve years and yet still casts a long, damned shadow. "What could you lose, hanging back for a year or so? Spend some time running the empire you're building instead of marching constantly to war." _

_"What would be the point of that?" he dismisses, putting some distance between the two of them. "You do that job better than I do, with your shrewd plans and shadowy plots. I am quite content with you keeping the works running while I conquer us a legacy that will last millennia." _

_"I have already made the point as to why that might be problematic."_

_"Nonsense. Don't you see? This is why our empire will last longer than any other—because instead of one man grasping desperately to hold the reins of power, there will be two." He grasps the shoulders of his beloved. "For you, Hephaestion, are Alexandros as well. My second self." He reaches to cradle his chin, brushing his thumb across the other man's lips. "Have I not said so a thousand times?"_

_Hephaestion's eyes lose some of their strain, though he looks away. "And yet you are king, not I. This was never meant to be my domain. The gods chose your line, not mine."_

_"Perhaps not yet," Alexandros allows. "But one day it will be. As I said before."_

_He has no doubt about that. _

_There are several long moments where he waits, expectant, and then Hephaestion sighs. "As always, I will serve your will."_

_Alexandros nods in approval. "Good."_

_"I still worry, though, that your utter certainty in your will may someday be misplaced." _

_"Nonsense. I am a god, remember?"_

_"In your own mind, perhaps."_

_"Blasphemy," Alexandros says with affection, curling his fingers into the hair at the name of Hephaestion's neck and pulling him close. "You have called me god on more than one occasion." _

_Whatever the response to that might be is cut off as he fits their lips together, and then he knows nothing but the taste of his beloved._

He startles awake, the ghost of lips upon his own.

His skin tingles and burns, like it's been stretched around an ill-fitting frame, and there's a throbbing pressure behind his eyes.

"Where…?" he murmurs, examining his surroundings in confusion for a moment. The room is a far cry from the frescoed rooms and silken furniture he is used to, and the incense-thick air now replaced with something floral and false.

Worse than the disorientation is the fact Hephaestion has vanished.

Only as he jumps out of the bed where he was laying does reality return, hitting him like a crowbar to the head.

He's not Alexandros—not anymore. He's Jason, and this is Tim's guestroom, and Tim is—

"Not here," he realizes, whatever panic might have been brewing about his previous lives blurring with his current one vanishing with the realization. It's like a vice clamps around his lungs, and unless he finds Tim, it won't release.

Instantly he's stumbled from the bed and across the room, throwing open the door in a hurry. He bursts into the hallway, frantic eyes flitting wildly until he spots Tim standing at the other end. He is framed in a doorway, deep in discussion with—

Blondie is on the stairs beside him—_too near, _way_ too near!_—and Jason's already moving.

Before he's even aware of it, he has Tim wrapped in his arms, has his face buried in his neck and breathes in the scent of him that is somehow so different and yet so similar to how it once was beneath blood and sand and time.

Tim stands stock still, bearing up under the sudden onslaught remarkably well. Jason is a full five inches taller than him and considerably bulkier; Jason can feel him bracing himself beneath him.

"Sorry," he says immediately and pulls away.

"Don't be," Tim says, clearly working to keep his voice level and pretend he is unaffected. He clears his throat. "It's on the list."

Jason rubs the back of his head, uncomfortable. "Guess I should probably take a look at that then maybe."

They're both trying and failing to avoid each other's gaze until there's a cough beside them.

Jason suddenly recalls Steph's presence—which comes along with a long-buried piece of information that's never bothered him until now. Namely that she and Tim dated.

On the tails of that fact is irrational anger, because in _this_ time, she has a prior claim on him. And she's never made any bones about disliking him. Who's to say she isn't here to take Tim away from him in the name of protecting him?

Which is both exactly what he wants and also ground for him to rip her throat out.

His lip curls reflexively and he looms closer to Tim. "Problem, Blondie?"

"Yep," she says easily, the forced calm of someone trying to negotiate a hostage release. Her mouth is pulled into a sharp smile, eyes cool. "But not the one you think I have."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you're both being ridiculous," Tim interrupts, a shade too loud and with a glare in Steph's direction. That, more than his words, causes Jason to relax a little; if Tim's annoyed with her, he's less likely to let her drag him off somewhere. "Jason, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. I had to speak to Damian, and then Steph showed up…" He shakes his head in apology. "Did you at least get some rest?"

"A bit," Jason says though it's a lie. "Speaking of the bat brat, where is he?"

"Went back to the manor."

There's a lot more relief in his voice than the usual that comes with Damian making an exit.

There's a sudden blare of music from Steph's pocket, some pop thing that Jason's probably heard on the radio or in a movie or something. Digging it out, she barely glances at the number before her previously hard expression blooms into a smile.

"It's Cass," she tells Tim. "Mind if I step into the other room, or do I have to worry about wandering hands while I'm out of earshot?" she drawls.

"Very funny," he grumbles as she does just that.

Jason's brows draw together, wary; it almost sounds as if Steph is…joking about all this. Not getting ready to split them up or say something disapproving that might hurt Tim. Which…is not what he was expecting.

"Did I miss something while I was asleep?" he asks.

"No!"

"Yeah, that was a little too quick to be believable, baby bird."

"We just established a few things is all. So if you're worried about Steph, don't be."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she won't say anything. She's an ally." At Jason's derisive snort, Tim glowers. "She covered for you—for us at the Cave. So no one else knows."

Jason stares at him without comprehension for a moment and then remembers, and his neck and cheeks warm.

The kiss.

"Right." He swallows. "Guess Bats wouldn't be too comfortable with us hanging out if he knew about that, huh?"

"I don't care if he's comfortable or not," Tim says with stubborn venom. "The particulars of this situation is no one's business but ours. It's enough B's keeping us benched, he doesn't get to dictate this too."

The fierce expression is the same one he wore earlier in the Cave when he was standing up to Bruce, and Jason once again experiences that overwhelming need to pull him close and continue playing out the scene of his dream in real-time.

This time he's able to rein it in, but it's a tenuous thing.

"Consider this whole thing's about us, I have no intention of staying completely out of the investigation," Tim goes on, thankfully unaware of the direction of Jason's thoughts. "If anyone's going to figure all of this out, it's going to be us."

"Well, you've got me convinced," he says around the dryness of his mouth.

"Not that that takes much lately right?" Tim quips, lightly teasing in a way that makes Jason have to fight down an embarrassing sound in his throat. "Anyway, on that note, there's food downstairs if you want to eat. Then I want to get back to the mainframe and do some more research for the case."

"I'm fine," Jason says, even though his stomach feels like a bunch of razor blades scraping around inside.

He distantly recognizes the feeling from many sleepless, hungry nights on the street, but somehow it doesn't really bother him just then. It's the same way the lack of sleep has felt like an afterthought until Tim forced him to lie down. His interest in anything seems to have become directly proportional to what Tim thinks about it.

Which the other man seems to have figured out as well because he narrows his eyes and indicates Jason should follow him down to the kitchen and the table with several brightly colored containers of Chinese take-out.

"Eat," he commands.

Jason bristles. "You know, just because I'm _slightly_ obsessed with you right now doesn't mean you get to boss me around." Tim raises an eyebrow, and there's that reflex almost-whimper building in his throat that he must cough to get rid of. "I'm eating because I have a girlish figure to maintain and no other reason."

"Of course," Tim agrees, clearly knowing different.

The food, like the nap, doesn't satisfy the way it usually might; there's no relief in it, even though Jason knows it will help keep his strength up and not just because Tim said so.

He's always felt a need to keep Tim happy when he was Patroklus and Hephaestion, but it was never under the compulsion he is now. There was always the freedom to refrain from something he disagreed with or stand up to schemes he didn't agree with.

As pissed off as he is about Eros infecting him and ensuring his over-the-top fixation with Tim, it could be a _lot_ worse. At least Tim would only take advantage to ensure he's taking care of himself.

_Which is ironic considering how bad he is at taking care of himself._

_In every life, as it were._

_Jason's mood darkens, the dream still at the forefront of his mind, along with the prophecy he heard earlier. _

_If he had any doubt about his involvement before, it's gone now. Too much of it can apply to him and his situation, especially since he's the only one that's been explicitly named. _

_Magnificent Alexandros…gods, I had an ego, didn't I?_

_Though he remembers being him, remembers his feelings and logic and personality, he's also still himself enough now_ _to recognize that he was a bit of a conceited ass in his previous lives. Sure, he's confident and cocky now, but both his previous incarnations lived as if the entire world revolved around him. He wonders what Tim—or Tim's previous selves—ever saw in him._

_Speaking of Tim…_

_He's also mentioned in the prophecy, even if it's not by name. _

_When Hephaestion died—he swallows, mentally blocking out the flood of memories of that_ _dark day—Alexandros ordered him enshrined in the most magnificent tomb he could commission. He hadn't even arranged for his own to be that grandiose, so overcome was he in his grief. He's long since learned the immensely expensive mausoleum was never completed, but Hephaestion's body is likely still there. _

_(At least, Jason can't recall hearing anything about the tomb being discovered yet.)_

_And before Hephaestion, Patroklus' brutal death was the reason Achilles decimated Troy. He was burned on those beaches, his ashes enshrined in a stone shelter on that foreign beach, in earth steeped in blood. _

_So the likelihood of the prophecy referring to Tim as well as Jason is very high._

_For a moment, he entertains the hope that it means Tim will be able to remember their previous lives without having to die to do it._

_Then again, Jason's too smart to believe he would be that lucky. _

_"Jason?"_

_He glances up, notices Tim watching him worriedly, and realizes he's been staring at the empty container of lo mein. Apparently he ate it, but he can barely taste a hint of it in his mouth, and his stomach remains unsettled. _

_"Are you okay?"_

_"Fine," Jason says automatically, pushing the leftovers away. "I'm full. Let's head back to that fancy computer of yours." _

_Tim frowns like he doesn't entirely believe that, but nods. _

On their way back to the Nest, Steph returns from her phone call.

"So what was your uber-secret phone call about?" Tim wants to know.

"Lots of things I'm not telling you or your overgrown puppy there," she quips with an irreverent grin. "Also, she's flying in as soon as possible."

"To help us, or help you mock the situation?"

"Why can't it be both?"

Tim groans. "As if things weren't bad enough…"

"Oh, relax, Ex-Boyfriend, if you can't laugh at a situation, what can you?"

Jason growls at the words, earning a startled glance from Steph. Tim catches on quick, because he says, "You might want to watch your words for a bit, Steph. I don't think Jason's got the capacity to interpret certain jokes just now."

"Yeah, no kidding," she agrees with a frown.

"Also, unless you intend to be useful, maybe go away," Jason suggests with false cheer.

"Jason…"

"No, he's right," Steph interrupts, mouth thinning. "I'm just here to keep an eye out, but I didn't sign up to be abused. If I wanted that I could've stayed in the Cave babysitting Dick. I thought you guys would at least be more fun."

"Steph, it's not his fault—"

"This week," she accuses. "What's his excuse for the rest of the time?"

"Lingering trauma."

Tim groans at Jason's retort, and Steph rolls her eyes. "And we're back to the death jokes. Get some new material, Zombie Boy."

"Would you both stop it!" Tim demands. "This is even less amusing than it usually is."

Jason's shoulders hunch; he feels instantly reprimanded and terrible for upsetting Tim. Steph doesn't look quite as abashed, but her tense stance relaxes and she sighs.

"Fine. This is me, letting it go. _For now_." They pause in front of the secret door as Tim reaches for the panel. "I'm going to commandeer your training room for a bit. See how much range of motion I still have." She moves her injured arm gingerly. "Keep the comms open so if there's any trouble I know to come help." She jabs an index finger at the two of them. "And no smooching noises."

"Why? Jealous?" Jason jeers.

"Hardly," she snorts. "Remember, I've kissed him more than you have."

A film of green fury seems to pass across his vision and Jason lurches forward. His fist is already flying toward her, missing its mark only due to the fact that Steph has excellent reflexes and because Tim's wrapped his arms around him from behind.

"Jason, no! Stop it!"

"Come on, Tim, this time she deserves it," he whines.

"She deserves…something…" Tim grunts, trying to dig his heels into the ground. "But you…don't hit…women…"

Something icy slides down the length of Jason's spine in realization because…Tim's right. He doesn't hit women—at least, not unless he's in a life or death situation facing off with a rogue or unscrupulous woman like Suzie Su who can take the hit. And he's never lashed out at a woman just based on his own fury.

How could he forget something so fundamental to his principles? All because of a bit of teasing he'd probably just answer with snark on a normal day?

_It's getting worse, isn't it?_

His stomach twists, and he suddenly wants to throw up every bit of food he just ate.

Jason sags back on his heels, kept up only because Tim is still bolstering him from behind. As the inexplicable rage vanishes to be replaced by guilt and shame, he sees that Steph now looks trouble.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice subdued. "I didn't realize it was that bad."

"Neither did I," Jason croaks. He wants to flee—to stalk off and get away from everything about this situation. But the warmth of Tim's arms around him is a more convincing argument against that, countering every one of his normal coping mechanisms.

And as comforting as it is to know Tim is there to support him, Jason can't help feeling utterly trapped.

⁂⁂⁂

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